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EMILY JANE BRONTE (1818-1848) 
From the fragment of a portrait-group painted by her brother Patrick 
Branwell Bronte about 184S. now in the National Portrait Gallery 



BRONTE POEMS 

SELECTIONS FROM THE POETRY OF 

CHARLOTTE, EMILY, ANNE 

AND BRANWELL BRONTE 



EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION, BY 

ARTHUR C; BENSON 



I 
1 



s\ 



WITH PORTRAITS AND FACSIMILES 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
NEW YORK AND LONDON 

Zbc ffnfcftcrbocfter press 
1915 






Copyright, 19 is 

BY 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 



MAY 22 1915 

'Cbe "Rnfcfeerbocfter Press, 1Rew 13orh 

'CI.,A401098 



INTRODUCTION 



IT is a matter of something more than simple 
curiosity to trace, if possible, the physical 
descent of imaginative and technical qualities 
so marked and pronounced as those which 
flowered in the four Brontes. Mendelism — 
that is to say the new scientific view of heredity 
— has taught us to look confidently in the ances- 
try of any stock for the germs of outstanding 
faculties, even though it also indicates that such 
a variation implies a loss rather than a gain of 
balance, and that an outburst of intellectual 
or artistic force probably implies, not an added 
quality, but the abstracting of some other quality, 
the absence of which allows the mind to have 
freer play. 

But though Mrs. Gaskell traced the life and 
temperament of the sisters in a fine flowing out- 
line, full of insight and charm, and though Mr. 
Clement Shorter, with infinite patience and 
exactness of investigation, has accumulated an 
astonishing amount of detailed evidence about the 

• • • 

111 



Introduction 

whole household, yet we cannot precisely discern 
the far-off approach of genius and capacity in 
their case. All that we know is that the mother, 
a Cornish woman, had a taste for the elaborate, 
if somewhat prim, expression of emotions; and 
that the father, that grim and even grotesque 
figure, who in later life tended to submerge 
his face into ever-increasing folds of a cambric 
choker, was a zealous and industrious poet. 
He published, as a 3^oung parson , a volume 
entitled Cottage Poems ^ and according to his 
own account — 

"When relieved from Clerical avocations, he 
was occupied in writing the Cottage Poems from 
morning till noon, and from noon till night ; his 
employment was full of indescribable pleasure, 
such as he could wish to taste as long as life lasts. 
His hours glided pleasantly and almost imper- 
ceptibly by, and when night drew on, and he 
retired to rest, ere his eyes closed in sleep with 
sweet calmness and serenit}^ of mind, he often 
reflected that, though the delicate palate of 
criticism might be disgusted, the business of the 
day in the prosecution of this humble task was 
well-pleasing in the sight of God, and by His 
blessing might be rendered useful to some poor 
soul who cared little about critical niceties." 

Here is a case of undoubted arti::tic absorption ; 
but the manner and matter of Mr. Bronte's verse 

iv 



Introduction 



can be adequately gauged and summarily dis- 
mi.;sed by giving two not unfavourable speci- 
mens — 

" Should poverty, modest and clean, 

E 'er please when presented to view, 
Should cabin on brown heath or green, 

Disclose aught engaging to you; 
Sfaould Erin's wild harp soothe the ear, 

When touched by such fingers as mine. 
Then kindly attentive draw near, 

And candidly ponder each line." 

He further published a prose work called The 
Cottage in the Wood, or the Art of becoming Rich 
and Happy, which contains a poetical episode 
entitled The Nightly Revel, from which it may 
be inferred that he was a diligent student oi 
Pope. 

" Without, within, above, beneath, around, 
Ungodly jests and deep-mouthed oaths resound; 
Pale Reason, trembling, leaves her reeling throne, 
Truth, Honour, Virtue, Justice, all are flown; 
The sly, dark-glancing harlot's fatal breath 
Allures to sin and sorrow, shame and death. 
The gaming-table, too, that fatal snare, 
Beset with fiercest passions fell is there." 



Mr. Bronte, however, though indifferent to 
critical niceties, lived much in the company of 

V 



Introduction 

his children, at least in early days, and discerned 
signs of rising talent which struck him as being 
unusual and original. He encouraged them to 
read, to write, to discuss politics and current 
affairs; and on one occasion, having a mask in 
the house, encouraged them to reply to some 
curious questions which he asked them under 
cover of the mask, thinking that they would so 
speak with less timidity. The answers they 
made show extraordinary prccocit}^ 

There is no evidence that the Brontes ever 
played games like ordinary children, or ever 
associated with any family but their own. They 
talked and argued, they established wdiat they 
called "plays, " which seem to have been drama- 
tic representations of interminable adventures. 
The plays were called Young Men, Our Fellows , 
and Islanders. Besides these they had ' ' secret ' ' 
plays, which were not enacted in common, but 
shared private]}^ between two of them at a time. 
Thus Charlotte and Emily had plays of their 
own, and Emily and Anne had a play called The 
Gondals, or later The Gondal Chronicle, which 
appears to have traced the adventures of a remote 
princely race, living in a mist-hung, rain-swept, 
northern land, under fierce feudal conditions of 
conquest, warfare, defeat, and imprisonment; to 
thi ', cycle several of Emily Bronte's poems 
obviously belong. The children also spun end- 

vi 



Introduction 

less romances and tales about the family of their 
great idol the Duke of Wellington, making his 
sons, the Marquis of Douro and Lord Charles 
Wellesley, their heroes. Several of these 
compositions still exist in manuscript, written 
in a tiny species of printed script in small paper 
note-books, given them by Mr. Bronte, who on 
one occs,sion appended a direction on the front 
page that everything written in the volume was 
to be "in a good, plain, and legible hand." 



We have here, however, to confine ourselves to 
the development of the poetical gift in the 
children. There is a letter written by Charlotte 
Bronte, in 1834 to her friend Miss Ellen Nussey, 
which shows what the poetry they read had 
been. . . . "You ask me to recommend you 
some books for your perusal. I will do so in as 
few words as I can. If you like poetry, let it be 
first-rate; Milton, Shakespeare, Thomson, Gold- 
smith, Pope, (if you will, though I don't admire 
him), Scott, Byron, Campbell, Wordsworth, and 
Southey. Now don't be startled at the names 
of Shakespeare and Byron. Both these wx^re 
great men, and their works are like themselves. 
You will know how to choose the good, and to 
avoid the evil; the finest passages are always the 

vii 



Introduction 

purest, the bad are invariably revolting; you 
will never wish to read them over twice. Omit 
the comedies of Shakespeare, and the Don 
Juan, perhaps the Cain, of Byron, though the 
latter is a magnificent poem — and read the rest 
fearlessly ; that must indeed be a depraved mind 
which can gather evil from Henry VIII, from 
Richard III, from Macbeth, and Hamlet, and 
Julius CcBsar. Scott's sweet, wild, romantic 
poetry can do you no harm. Nor can Words- 
worth's, nor Campbell's, nor Southey's — the 
greatest part at least of his; some is certainly 
objectionable." ... If we add to these, from 
other sources of information, Coleridge, Crabbe, 
and Cowper, whose works they read and admired, 
it is clear enough what the literary models of the 
famiily circle were. 

It may frankly be confessed that the interest 
of the Poems is entirely centred on the work of 
Emily. If it had not been for the genius which 
her work unmistakably displa3^s, the poetry of 
the other three would have sunk into oblivion. 

The origin of the slender published volume of 
poems is given b}^ Charlotte. She found a little 
MS. book in her sister Emily's handwriting, and 
was struck by the quality of the lyrics. Emily 
resented the discover}'' at first, and it took long to 
reconcile her to the idea of publication. Anne 
readily produced her -own poems for Charlotte's 

A^ii 



Introduction 

inspection. Charlotte sent specimens of her own 
poetry certainly to Southey, and probably to 
Coleridge. vSlie received a kind letter from 
Southey telling her to write poetry for its own 
sake, "not in a spirit of emulation and not with 
a view to celebrity." He also said, "Literature 
cannot be the business of a woman's life, and it 
ought noi to be." 

However, the volume containing the poems of 
the three sisters was published at their own 
expense in 1846; and it is interesting to observe 
that here, as always, it was Charlotte who took 
the necessary practical measures for the ac- 
complishment of the scheme. 

It is not quite clear why Branwell's poems 
were not included. He had .sent specimens of 
his work to Wordsworth with an enthusiastic 
and rhetorical letter. He received a reply, but it 
is not preserved; Wordsworth certainly con- 
sidered Branwell's letter a remarkable one, and 
remembered it when Charlotte Bronte became 
famous. 



Of Charlotte Bronte 's poems there is little 
to be said. The technique of them is careful 
enough, but the effect is stiff and conventional. 
They afford a clear proof of how ineffective even 

ix 



Introduction 

high genius can be, when employed in an uncon- 
genial medium. It is strange that Charlotte 
Bronte's exquisite gift for poetical prose, her 
power of imaginative vision, her rich and flexible 
vocabulary, were all cramped and confined 
by metre and rhyme. Her actual m^anagement 
of rhythm and structure is more correct and 
accurate than Emily's, but there is little inspira- 
tion or originality. It is literary verse, and could 
not have been composed except in reliance upon 
standard models. 

With Emily it is very different. In prose her 
technique is as decidedly German in origin as 
Charlotte's was no less decidedly French; the 
amazing novel WtUhering Heights shows a deep 
dramatic power, a grasp of tragical character and 
situation, a force of lurid visualization, which are 
different in kind from anything which Charlotte 
attempted. Emily must always remain a deep 
enigma. She moves about the scene, a silent, 
impetuous, ardent figure, with passionate attach- 
ments to her own family, to the animals which 
shared their life, to the moors and hills beyond 
the bare Parsonage. Apart from these she 
could not exist; whenever she left home, she 
pined in a fierce nostalgia. She was indifferent 
to all opinion, she made no friends, she suffered 
profoundly. When she came to die, she was 
torn reluctant, agonized, and yet uncomplaining, 

X 



Introduction 

out of the life she loved. Charlotte, it may be 
said, though afraid of life in a sense, yet enjoyed 
the touch of it in her own way, and found support 
in fame and friendship. But Emily's was a 
solitary and defiant spirit. Yet we have Char- 
lotte's own definite testimony that the brave, 
laughter-loving, half -indolent, half-fiery char- 
acter of^ Shirley was drawn closely from what 
she believed that Emily might have been if her 
life had been richer in opportunities. In the 
rough but profoundly interesting painting by 
Branwell of his three sisters, now in the National 
Portrait Gallery, Charlotte is homely and 
commonplace, Anne is meek and pensive, but 
there is a charm about the upright figure and 
irregular features of Emily, something boy-like 
and fresh, which survives even Branwell's 
unskilled handling. 

When we turn to Emily's poetry, the genius of 
it becomes instantly apparent. She was speak- 
ing her own natural language. Her verse is often 
obscured by its plainness and directness, its 
apparent indifference to all artistic charm. It 
is full of weak and conventional rhymes, careless 
assonances, vague and broken rhythms. Very 
few of her poems are accurately constructed. 
But there is an immense feeling of reality and 
observation. The power of the Brontes lay in 
their capacity for multiplying the significance of 

xi 



Introduction 

what would seem to be small and trivial incidents 
and emotions; and Emily seems to have turned 
upon nature and life an unflinching vision, and to 
have really seen for herself the things which 
familiarity is so apt to blur. 

Take the stanza describing the dewy morning — i 
with the view across the moorland — " 

"The damp stands in the long, green grass, 
As thick as morning's tears; 
And dreamy scents of fragrance pass 
That breathe of other years." 

Or such lines as the following, which give with 
marvellous exactness the background of the quiet 
house, the little incidents of daily life — 

"The curtains waved, the wakened flies 
Were murmuring round my room, 
• Imprisoned there, till I should rise, 

And give them leave to roam." 



Or this- 



"The old clock in the gloomy hall 
Ticks on, from hour to hour; 
And every time its measured call 
Seems lingering slow and slower." 



Or again — 



"The mute bird sitting on the stone. 

The dank moss dripping from the wall, 
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown, 
I love them— how I love them all!" 



Xll 



Introduction 

She had, too, a marvellous power at the begin- 
ning of a lyric of striking a mysterious note. 
vShe is describing a border raid — 

"Were they shepherds, who sat all day 
On that brown mountain's side? 
But neither staff nor dog had they, 
Nor woolly flock to guide." 

And slie had the facult}^ of bringing a picture, 
by a single detail, in a wholly unadorned phrase 
before the mind. Who has not seen a little 
moorland rivulet, running briskly beneath over- 
hanging heather, eddying swiftly into a tiny 
basin, where the slender current revolves? 

"Yet marked she not where Douglas lay, 
She only saw the well; 
The tiny fountain, churning spray 
Within its mossy cell." 

More notable still is the true lyrical power of 
touching into life a mood or a scene, only hinted 
and suggested, which yet gathers into itself, as if 
by some concealed analysis, a whole throng of 
faint echoes and dim presences — 

"Harp of wild and dream-like strain, 
When I touch thy strings, 
Why dost thou repeat again 
Long-forgotten things?" 

Or again — 

xiii 



Introduction 



"The bus}^ day has glided by, 

And hearts greet kindred hearts once more; 
And swift the evening hour should fly, 
But what turns every gleaming eye 
So often to the unopened door?" 

Or this— 

"He comes with western winds, with evening's wandering 

airs, 
With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest 

stars. 
Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire, 
And visions rise and change, that kill me with desire." 

Indeed, in this last mysterious poem, he 
Signal Light, which depicts a rapture of spiritual 
intensity, there are lines which show that if 
Emily had gained certainty of touch and a 
power of equable finish, she would have claimed 
a secure place among the most impassioned 
English lyrists. 

But it must be admitted that, in their incom- 
plete form, many of Emily's poems are bound to 
appeal most vividly to those who have a technical 
understanding of the craft of poetry. There is 
hardly a poem without a touch of high quality, 
but they are more like studies and sketches than 
finished pictures. This condition has its own 
charm and its own interest; but it needs a 
knowledge of the methods and difficulties of 
poetical art to see the extraordinary power of 

xiv 



IntrodMction 

many of the lyrics through their incomplete and 
often amateurish form; yet even the very in- 
equalities and broken outlines have a subtle 
suggestiveness of their own which cannot be 
gainsaid, while her command of melody and 
proportion in the too rare instances where she 
achieved a finished poem like Remembrance, or 
the 5owg-7-"The linnet in the rocky dells" — is a 
proof that the skill was there. 

A few of Anne's poems are included; her mind 
was of a far more conventional order, and over- 
shadowed by a cramping kind of orthodox piety. 
But in some of her poems there comes a flash of 
the indomitable courage of the sisters, and a 
power of dealing with strong and unadorned 
phrases. 

It has been customary to omit all mention of 
Branwell's work. The catastrophe of his life 
was so deplorable, and the wreck of a charming 
and attractive nature , through self-indulgence and 
morbidity, so tragical, that he has been hurried 
out of sight. It must remain one of the enigmas 
of heredity that the single brother of sisters 
whose conception of duty and purity was so 
grimly passionate, and who, for all their sensitive- 
ness and susceptibility, kept so unflinching a 
hold upon a high and fearless morality, should 
seem to have lacked any toughness or chivalry 
of fibre. Br an well, in his surviving letters, 

XV 



Introduction 

displays a pretentious secondrateness which 
is almost impressive for its typical commonness 
and vulgarity. After he took to drink and 
opium, his statements became wholly unreliable. 
But still one can discern in him a touch of the 
charm and the enthusiasm which made him the 
admired and eager partner of his sisters' enter- 
prises, and then betrayed him into a showy 
conviviality which ended in corruption. Bran- 
well had a passion for applause on any terms; 
but his poems, infinitely morbid and macabre 
as they are, have in several places a touch of 
melody, while in Percy Hall he shows a trace 
of Emily's power of observation, and The 'End of 
All gives a curious hint of what was to develop 
in the hands of the pre-Raphaelites as an artistic 
principle — the bold handling of common scenes 
and details with veracity and dignity. 



The real great difficulty in making a selection 
of the Bronte poems is the simple one, that the 
most fragmentary and faulty of Emily's poems, 
even if it is but a few inconsequent lines, is more 
interesting, to speak frankly, than the most 
polished and finished poem by either Charlotte 
or Anne. It was not that Emily's experience 
was more poignant or tragic, it was not either 

xvi 



Introdiiction 

that her human affections were deeper — indeed 
her attachment to animals and places was so 
strong that she seems to have formed scarcely 
any human alliances, except vrith her sister 
Anne. But her attitude to life was somehow 
larger and bolder, and the scanty glimpses we 
gain of her spirit give the sense of a consuming 
fire. In the midst of the life, which she loved in 
every smallest detail, she was haunted, it seems, 
by a sense of rebellion at her limitations — at the 
pain, the dreariness, the brevity of life. It is 
singular to note how many of her early poems 
employ the image of the prisoner, enslaved and 
immured. Yet this sense of the baffled incom- 
pleteness of it all led her into a profound and 
daring mysticism. She believed, if it is possible 
to speak decisively, in an immortality which 
should incorporate her spirit with the Divine 
spirit; she thought of death as a revealer of 
secrets, and as adding a vitality and a purity to 
the soul rather than in any way diminishing 
its energies. This fibre of mysticism, with a 
strong sense of symbolism, added a poetical 
quality to her visions which is entirely unlike 
anything to which Charlotte ever attained; 
Charlotte's gift was rather the analysis and the 
expansion of emotion, while Emily's was the 
concentration of it; and thus even in her least 
successful poems, in her imitative flights — for 

xvii 



Intyodiiction 

there are several of her poems which are wholly 
Wordsworthian in construction and method — 
there are lines which glow and sparkle like gems 
with hidden wells of lucent fire ; so that the very 
chips and leavings of her workshop have often 
a sense of art about them, a suggestiveness of 
phrase, a range of vision, which the cautious 
craftsmanship of her sisters never achieved. 
Yet it is hardly fair to Emily's reputation to print ~ 
the rough drafts of poems which fail to attain to 
any sense of form or connection. I have tried in 
my selection to preserve all that is salient and 
exquisite; and yet a prolonged study of her 
poems has made me feel a sense of preciousness 
and power about her lightest touches. 

There are few surviving fragments of Bran- 
well's poetry; yet, if I may speak frankly, I 
believe that he had a higher instinct for poetry 
than either Charlotte or Anne. His mental 
power was, however, so much damaged by the 
life he led, and his application so languid, that it 
is impossible not to recognize the feebleness of 
much of his execution. I believe, however, that 
Branwell's attitude to life, in spite of his lapses, 
was more like Emily's outlook than that of 
either Charlotte or Anne. He had the same 
untamed, imprisoned sense that Emily had, 
the same passionate rebellion against the dis- 
cipline of life. And there is a real originality of 

xviii 



Introduction 

phrase and even of thought about his best work, 
a relentless fidelity which is more akin to art 
than the deliberate and misapplied toil which 
characterizes the weaker work of Charlotte and 
Anne. Branwell's, like Emily's, was a thwarted 
spirit. Unlike Emily, he was deeply ambitious, 
and like Charlotte, he would have found success 
sustainilig. But he alone of the four had no 
moral patience, no power of defiance. Emily 
achieved it by her lofty independence of spirit, 
Charlotte by courage and tenacious interest in 
life, Anne by a deep religious faith. But I 
believe Branwell to have possessed the artistic 
vision, though an early corruption of tempera- 
ment leading to a base gaiety was fatal to all 
clearness and energy of presentment. 



The final interest of the collection is this : that 
we have a glimpse of the poetical work of a group 
of four writers of solitary genius. The extreme 
seclusion in which the household lived, its lack of 
any width of experience, differentiates it from 
the work of most of the writers of the nineteenth 
century. The great poets of that era are char- 
acterized by a broad outlook upon life, a strong 
intellectual perception of the tendencies of the 
day, and a distinct purpose of interpreting the 

xix 



Introdzictton 

needs and aims of the time in poetry. The work 
of the Brontes on the other hand is wholly 
individualistic. They had no knowledge cf 
social forces, no touch with intellectual move- 
ments. Their interests were homely, their 
circle was commonplace and demure. At the 
time when their poetical work was done, they 
had felt the touch of private tragedy and bereave- 
ment. But the very simplicity of the setting 
kept their minds firmly upon the large and inti- 
mate realities of life; and thus perhaps the appeal 
of their work is more vivid and personal, because 
of the fact that it was centred upon problems 
perceived and interpreted by lonely genius, and 
not disguised b}^ complicated relations, or 
merged in any of the schemes which invite the 
co-operation of mankind. 

A. C. B. 



XX 



TEXTUAL NOTE 

r'HE chief difficulty about producing an abso- 
lutely correct text of the Bronte Poems lies in 
the fact that the script of the original MSS. is so 
minute as to be often hardly decipherable. A 
specimen of the original MS. is appended. Fur- 
ther, the punctuation and the indentation of the 
lines are very loose, while the spelling is often 
extremely incorrect. Moreover, both Charlotte and 
Emily Bronte often transferred stanzas from an 
unfinished poem into a completed poem on a 
similar siibject."^ Those of the poems that were 
edited and published by Charlotte Bronte herself 
are perfectly accurate, both in orthography and 
punctuation. But Emily Bronte^s spelling leaves 
much to be desired. I have corrected this through- 
out. For instance, she spelt the word '^ watch'' 
in a variety of ways, but most commonly as 
"whach''; and I have not thought it advisable to 
leave these obvious errors. I have also introduced 
ordinary punctuation throughout, while I have 
made a few conjectural emendations. For instance, 
Efnily Bronte describes the wintry moo/land as 

^ See Emily Bronte's poems, 92 and 93, pp. 206-209. 

xxi 



Textual Note 

^'flowlessy This is probably a misreading of 
''flowWless'' {see page lOo). The text has, as far 
as possible, been restored from' the original MSS., 
and I believe it to be now substantially correct. It 
must, however, be remembered that the volume is, 
after all, only a selection; and I have omitted a large 
number of imperfect and unfinished stanzas from 
the poems, which would certainly not have been 
published without revision and correction; while 
I have tried to retain everything short of mere 
chaotic scraps and jottings. 

A. C. B. 



xxii 



CONTENTS 

{Poems marked with an asterisk (*) are now printed for the 

first time.) 

PAGE 

Introduction ....... iii 

Textual Note ....... xxi 

POEMS BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE 



/ 



I.* 


The Churchyard 


• • 








3 


2. 


Home-Sickness . 








4 


3- 


The Wounded Stag . 








6 


4. 


King Richard's Song . 








8 


5. 


Saul 








II 


6.* 


Look into thought 








15 


7. 


Gods of the old mythology . 








16 


8. 


Reason . , . . 








17 


9.* 


He saw my heart's woe 








19 


10. 


Mementos 








21 


II. 


The Wood 


• 








24 


12. 


Frances 


• 








29 


13. 


The Letter 


• 








. 33 


14. 


Presentiment 


, , 








. 37 


15. 


The Teacher's Monologue 








■ 41 


16. 


'Tis not the air I wished to ] 


play 






. 44 


17. 


Evening Solace . 








. 46 


18. 


Watching and Wishing 








. 48 


19. 


When Thou Sleepest . 








. 50 


20. 


Parting 








. 53 






XXlll 











Contents 



21. Winter Stores 
22.* Eventide . . . . 

23.* It is not at an hour like this 
24.* Speak of the North! . 



PAGE 
55 

57 
58 
60 



POEMS BY EAIILY BRONTE 



I 
2 

3 

• 4 

5 
6 

7 
8 

9 
10 

II 
12 

13 
14 
15 
16 

17 

18 

19 
20 
21 
22 

23 
24 

25 
26 

27 
28 



I know not how it falls on me 
Lady, watch Ajjollo's journey 
The evening sun was sinking down 
Loud without the wind was roaring 
Redbreast, early in the morning . 
'Twas just the time of eve . 
I saw thee, child, one summer day 
Sleep not, dream not; this bright day 
The sun has set .... 
Alone I sat; the summer day 
The organ swells, the trumpets sound 
Far away is the land of rest . 
The old church tower and garden wall 
The night is darkening round me 
Sleep brings no joy to me . 
Strong I stand .... 
To a Wreath of Snow 
I die, but when the grave shall press 
O mother, I am not regretting 
Weaned from life and flown away 
O wander not so far away! 
Song: This shall be thy lullaby . 
Douglas' Ride .... 
Where were ye all? and where wert thou? 
The desert moor is dark 
O dream, where art thou now? 
There swept adown that dreary glen 
How still, how happy! These are words 

xxiv 



63 
64 

65 
66 

67 
68 
70 

72 

74 
75 
77 

78 

79 

80 

81 

83 
84 
86 

87 
89 

90 
92 

93 
94 
95 
98 

99 
100 



Cotttents 



29. 
so- 
32- 
33. 
34. 
35- 
36. 
37. 
38. 

39. 
40. 
41. 
42. 

43- 
44. 

45. 
46. 

47. 

48. 
49. 
50. 
51- 
52. 
53- 
54. 
55- 
56. 
57. 
58. 

59. 
60. 

61. 



How deep into the wilderness 

]May flowers are opening 

The Absent One .... 

Song : King Julius left the south country 

Silent he sat. That stormy breast 

To a Bluebell ...... 

I am the only being whose doom . 
Claudia ...... 

The^busy day has hurried by 
Month after month, year after year 
Come hither, child .... 

Alild the mist upon the hill 

How long will you remain? 

The starry night shall tidings bring 

There was a time when my cheek burned 

Song: O between distress and pleasure 

That wind, I used to hear it swelling 

I've been wandering in the greenwoods 

Heaven's glory shone where he was laid 

Upon her soothing breast 

Go to the grave in youth's bare woe! 

Never ...... 

Thy sun is near meridian height . 

He smiles and sings .... 

It is too late to call thee now 
'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight 
If grief for grief can touch thee 
Companions all day long we've stood . 
Retirement ..... 

The Caged Bird 

I see around me piteous tombstones grey 

Geraldine ...... 

What winter floods, what streams of spring 

O Innocence, that cannot live 

Death 



PAGE 


. 102 


. 103 


. 105 


. 107 


. 108 


no 


III 


• 113 


. 115 


. 117 


. 118 


. 120 


121 


. 123 


• 125 


. 126 


. 128 


129 



130 

131 
132 

134 
135 

136 

137 

138 

140 

141 
143 
145 

146 

147 
148 



XXV 



Contents 



X 



62. Grave in the Ocean 

63. I gazed upon the cloudless moon 

64. I know our souls are all divine 

65. 'Twas yesterday at early dawn 

66. At Castle Wood 

67. This summer wind with thee and me 

68. A Day Dream . 

69. Remembrance 

70. A thousand sounds of happiness 

71. The Philosopher 

72. Tell me, tell mc, smiling child 

73. Come walk with me; there's only thee 

74. It was night, and on the mountains 

75. A fresh wind waves 

76. Shall earth no more inspire thee . 

77. Yes, holy be thy resting-place 

78. Last Words .... 

79. The Lady to Her Guitar 

80. The Outcast Mother . 

8 1 . The Wanderer from the Fold 

82. Warning and Reply 
-83. Encouragement 

84. Song: The linnet in the rocky dells 

85. A Death-Scene .... 

86. Faith and Despondency 

87. Honour's Martyr 

88. Heavy hangs the rain-drop . 

89. Child of delight .... 

90. The Signal Light — 

I. The Visionary , 

91. 2. ^The Prisoner 
92.* It was the autumn of the year 
93.* Why ask to know what date, what clime? 

94. Oh, all the cares these noontide airs 

95. There's something in this glorious hour 

xxvi 



Contents 









PAGE 


96. 


The heart which cannot know another 


213 


97. 


Ladybird! ladybird! fly away home 


214 


98. 


Sleep, mourner, sleep! — I cannot sleep . 


215 


99. 


How Edenlike seem palace walls . 


217 


100. 


Here am I standing lonely . 


• * 


218 


lOI. 


It was a little budding rose 


. 


219 


102. 


All her tresses backward straj^ed 


, 


220 


103. 


Start not! upon the minster wall 


. 


223 


104. 


Through the hours of yesternight 


224 


105. 


Harp of wild and dream-like strain 


. 225 


106. 


Here with my knee upon th}^ stone 


. 226 


107. 


In dungeons dark I cannot sing , 


. 227 


loS. 


When days of beauty deck the vale 


. 228 


109. 


Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away 


229 


no. 


All day I've toiled, but not with pain . 


. 230 


III. 


That dreary lake, that moonlight sky . 


. 231 


112. 


She dried her tears and they did smile . 


232 


113. 


I'm happiest now when most away 


. 233 


114. 


All hushed and still within the house 


. 234 


115. 


oMy ancient ship upon my ancient sea . 


. 235 


116. 


One pause upon the brink of life 


242 


117. 


Shed no tears o'er that tomb 


. 243 


118. 


Stars. .... 




245 


119. 


Anticipation 








. 248 


120. 


Hope 








. 251 


121. 


To Imagination . 








. 252 


122. 


How clear she shines! 








. 254 


123. 


Sym.pathy 








. 255 


124. 


Plead for IMe 








. 256 


125. 


Self-Interrogation 








. 258 


126. 


Stanzas to . 








. 260 


127. 


My Comforter . 








. 262 


128. 


The Old Stoic . 








. 264 


129. 


A little while, a little while 




. 265 


130. 


The Bluebell 








. 267 



XXVll 



Contents 



131. 
132. 

134. 

135- 
136. 



The Moors 

The Night-Wind .... 

Ay — there it is! it wakes to-night 
Love and Friendship .... 
Often rebuked, yet always back returning 
No coward soul is mine 



POEAIS BY ANNE BRONTE 



I. 

2. 

3- 

4.* 

5.* 
6. 

7.* 
8.* 

9- 
10. 

II. 
12. 

13- 
14. 

15- 
16. 

17. 

18. 

19. 
20. 
21. 
22. 

23. 
24. 

25- 
26. 



The Bluebell 

Lines Written at Thorp Green 

The Dungeon 

Night .... 

Dreams .... 

Song: We know where deepest lies the snow 

I dreamt last night, and in that dream 

Severed and gone, so many years 

Oh, they have robbed rae of the hope 

The Narrow Way 

Self-Communion 

Farewell to thee! but not farev/cll 

A Reminiscence 

The Arbour 

Home 

The Penitent 

If This Be All 

Memory 

To Cowper 

Past Days 

Consolation 

Appeal 

The Student's Serenade 

The Captive Dove 

Self-Congratulation 

Fluctuations 



xxvm 



Contents 







PAGE 


27. 


Despondency ...... 


344 


28. 


A Prayer ....... 


345 


29. 


In Memory of a Happy Day in February 


346 


30. 


Confidence ...... 


348 


31- 


Domestic Peace ...... 


350 


32. 


The Three Guides ..... 


352 


33- 


There let thy bleeding branch atone 


356 


34.* 


Fragment: Yes I will take a cheerful tone 


357 


35. 


Last Lines ..... 
POEMS BY BRANWELL BRONTE 


358 


I. 


So where He reigns in glory bright 


. 363 


2. 


Sonnet: On the Callousness Produced by Care 364 


3. 


Noah's Warning over Methusaleh's Grave 


. 365 


4- 


Our Lady of Grief .... 


. 367 


5- 


The End of All 


. 368 


6. 


Percy Hall. ..... 


. 373 


7- 


On Caroline ...... 


. 376 


8. 


Caroline ...... 


. 378 




Index to Titles of Poems . 


• 381 




Index to First Lines of Poems 


. 385 



XXIX 



4\ 

I 



1 



POEMS BY 
CHARLOTTE BRONTE 




CHARLOTTE SRONTE (i8i6-i8ss) 
EMILY JANE BRONTE (1818-1848) 
ANNE BRONTE (1820-1849) 

From the painting, by Patrick Brailwell Bronte, about 183S in the 

National Portrait Gallery. (The figures in the group are, reading from 

left to right, Anne, Emily, and Charlotte Bronte.) 

(This is the picture shown by. Charlotte Bronte to Mrs. Gaskell and da- 
scribed by her in " The Life of Charlotte," Haworth Edition, pages I35-X36.) 



The ChuycJiyard 



The Churchy ard 



* 



ONE night, when silence reigned around, 
I heard sweet music rise, 
Whose harp-like and harmonious sound 
Came from the star-decked skies. 

And when had died each silver tone, 

Thy spirit passed awa}^ 
And left me a sad mourner lone. 

On this dark earth to stay. 

My sister, may it ever be 

That from thy home on high 
A hymn of peace may check in me 

Each dark rebellious sigh. 

Then, sister, shall I truly know 

That mansions of the blest 
Wait, till from weariness below, 

My spirit enters rest! 

* * * 

'December 24, 1829. 

* Poems marked with an asterisk (*) are now printed for 
the first time. . 

3 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



Home- Sickness 

[This singular poem is the supposed complaint of an 
African boy who is being educated in England.] 



O 



F College I am tired. I wish to be at home, 
Far from the pompous tutor's voice and 
the hated schoolboys' groan. 



I wish that I had freedom to walk about at will, 
That I no more was troubled with my Greek and 
slate and quill. 

I wish to see my kitten, to hear my ape rejoice, 
To listen to my nightingale's and parrot's lovely 
voice. 

And England does not suit me! It's cold and 

full of snow, 
So different from black Africa's warm sunny 

genial glow. 

I'm shivering in the daytime and shivering all 

the night, 
I'm called poor startled withered wretch and 

miserable wight. 

4 



0>" ' * '■ T -I 



:vM^ A.v.'^trf ^,.^^ •-7/j\ II 




»••■'.» i-Vl^***-« -V 1.4. •A Vi*^*^' ''VJ 1" ±m 



*-^* 




A »'^ fc-»»*r;w. 












A 



" WHY ASK TO KNOW WHAT DATE, WHAT CLIME 

Facsimile MS. in Emily Bronte's handwriting 



Home-Sickness 

And 0! I miss my brother! I miss his gentle 

smile, 
Which used so many long dark hours of sorrow to 

beguile. 

I miss my dearest mother ; I now no longer find 
Ought half so mild as she was, so careful and so 
kind. 

I have not my father's, my noble father's, 

arms, 
To guard me from all wickedness, and keep me 
safe from harms. 

1 hear his voice no longer ; I see no more his eye 
Smile on me in mv misery; to whom now shall 

I fly? ' 

February^ 1830. 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



The Wounded Stag 

PASSING amid the deepest shade 
Of the wood's sombre heart, 
Last night I saw a wounded deer 
Laid lonely and apart. 

Such light as pierced the crowded boughs — 
Light scattered, scant, and dim — 

Passed through the fern that formed his couch, 
And centred full on him. 

Pain trembled in his weary limbs, 

Pain filled his patient eye; 
Pain-crushed amid the shadowy fern 

His branchy crown did lie. 

Where were his comrades? where his mate? 

All from his death-bed gone! 
And he, thus struck and desolate, 

Suffered and bled alone. 

Did he feel what a man might feel, 

Friendless and sore distrest? 
Did Pain's keen dart, and Grief's sharp sting 

Strive in his mangled breast? 

6 



The IVomided Stag 



Did longing for affection lost 
Barb every deadly dart; 

Love unrepaid, and Faith betrayed 
Did these torment his heart? 

No! leave to man his proper doom! 

These are the pangs that rise 
Around the bed of state and gloom, 

Where x\dam's offspring dies ! 

Circa 1833. 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



King Richard's Song 

THRICE the great fadeless lights of heaven, 
The moon, and the eternal sun, 
As God's unchanging law was given, 

Have each their course appointed run. 
Three times the Earth her mighty way 

Hath measured o'er a shoreless sea, 
While hopeless still from day to day 

I've sat in lone captivity. 
Listening the wind and river's moan. 
Wakening my wild harp's solemn tone, 
x\nd longing to be free. 

Blondel! My heart seems cold and dead, 

My soul has lost its ancient might. 
The sun of chivalry is fled. 

And dark despair's unholy night 
Above me closes still and deep. 

While wearily each lapsing day 
Leads onward to the last long sleep ; 

The hour when all shall pass away, 
When King and Captive, Lord and Slave, 
Must rest unparted in the grave 
A mass of soulless clay. 

8 



COlVV .V f^*, <.>«»»U A*A H-«. eA."h Jv^•ww .^l.y tat 

H.V., V.U.. »„.^^ /. _^ ^,^^^^^ ^^ ,^^ ^^ ^^^^^ 
(V.<.it«i~« ft*'**- WtM«j V«Uvv^ V>«aW> VvvA. »; • 



( 



^«.»»^ i»*^U y<i,t yV cU»»*.^. »«.JL SvHi^U.. ! 

H«af«-« V»U'«-«« (>t^«-»««-<- V»vt ov«.«t- A.O tl-cc v>-i,,w.»- 
^«» l^^ ».t<.'t WlWi (-»>«w> «i*y /.tkk l.(c v«*k* fli'vtw. 

AH i^y \'-k*'i !•(•'» .t »u U»v. n «,*.». v««*tA> tvt. 



REMEMBRANCE 

Facsimile MS. in Emily Bronte's handwriting 



King Richard' s Song 



O long I've listened to the sound 

Of winter's blast and snmnier's breeze, 
As their sweet voices sung around 

Through echoing caves, and wind- waved trees. 
And long I've viewed from prison-bars 

Sunset and dawn, and night and noon; 
Watched the uprising of the stars. 

Seen' the calm advent of the moon. 
But blast and breeze, and stars and sun, 
All vainly swept, all vainly shone, 
I filled a living tomb. 

God of my fathers! can it be? 

Must I, the chosen of thy might, 
Whose name alone brought victory. 

Whose battle-cry was "God my Right!" 
Closed in a tyrant's dungeon cell 

Wear out the remnant of my life ; 
And never hear again the swell 

Of high and hot and glorious strife, 
Where trumpets peal and bugles sing. 
And minstrels sweep the martial string, 
And wars, and fame are rife? 

No Blondel! thou wert sent by heaven 
Thy King, thy Lion-King, to free. 

To thee the high command was given, 
To rescue from captivity. 

9 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



Haste from the Tyrant Austrian's hold, 

Cross rapidly the rolling sea; 
And go, where dwell the brave, the bold, 

By stream and hill, and greenwood tree. 
Minstrel, let Merry England ring 
With tidings of her Lion- King, 
And bring back liberty. 

* * * 

Deccmbsr 27, 1833. 



10 



Saul 



5 

Saul 

NEATH the palms in Elah's valley 
Saul with all his thousands la3^ 
Israel's mightiest nobles rally 
Round their own anointed stay. 
This has been a battle-day, 
And the host lie wearily 

On the field of conflict wide, 
Where their slaughtered foemen be, 
Spear and target thrown aside. 

Saul within his purple tent 

Seeks for rest, and seeks in vain, 

Still a voice of sad lament 

Mingles with the trumpet-strain. 
Sounding o'er that war-like plain. 

And the spirit of the King 
Darkens with a cloud of woe, 

Thicker, denser, gathering 
As the rapid moments flow. 






Abner," thus the monarch said, 
God has left me desolate. 
All my heart is cold and dead 
Crushed amid my royal state ; 

II 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



Samuel bid me ever moiirn, 

Crown and Kingdom from me rent ; 
Saul is not a man to turn, 

Israel's strength can ne'er repent. 

**Abner, is it day's declining 

Brings this hour of darkness on? 
As the evening sun is shining 

Then I feel most sad and lone. 
Lo! its beams are almost gone, 

How their kindled glories burn 
All along our tented field! 

Spear and helm their flash return, 
Back it beams from lance and shield. 

"Palm and cedar catch the lustre 

Shining on them, bright and sheen, 
Where those groves of olives cluster, 

Night has lit their fadeless green. 
Those far hills are gem-like hued, 

Sparkling through the crimson'd air, 
All with roseate light imbued ; 

Abner! never scene so fair 
Smiled on Monarch's solitude. 

" Once I could have smiled again. 
Full of hope, and young and free; 

Now its beauty turns to bane. 
And my spirit wearily 

12 



Saul 

Shrinks that sight of bliss to see; 

It hath no communion now 
With a fair and sunny sky, 

Nature's calm and stormless brow 
Wakes in me no sympathy. 

" O, me thinks, were heaven scowling, 
Were those green hills black and hoar. 

Were the winds and billows howling 
Dashed against a sunless shore, 
Dark and cheerless evermore; 

I should feel less filled with woe, 
Filled with God-cursed misery, 

Than when breezes soft and low 
Whisper round me peacefully. 

" Then when eve and twilight meet, 
Dawning star and setting sun. 

All that Earth has, calm and sweet. 
Resting her bright plains upon, 
Toil and strife and battle done. 

Silent dews around me weeping, 
Gleaming on the warrior's brow, 

The weary warrior, hushed and sleeping 
By his conquered foe. 

*' Hush! rU cease this bootless sighing; 

Bid the son of Jesse come, 
Let his music, soft and dying, 

Win my spirit from her gloom, 

13 



PoefJis by Charlotte Bronte 



Call her exiled sunshine home. 
He has many a sacred air, 

Many a song of holiness, 
That perchance may soothing bear, 
1 Even to me, one hour of bliss." 

October 7, 1834. 



14 



Look into Thought 



LOOK into thought and say what dost thou 
see, 
Dive, be not fearful, how dark the waves flow. 
Sink through the surge, and bring pearls up to 
me. 
Deeper, ay, deeper; the fairest lie low. 

I have dived, I have sought them, but none have 

I found. 
In the gloom that closed o'er me no form 

floated by. 
As I sunk through the void depths so black and 

profound 

How dim died the sun and how far hung the 
sky! 

What had I given to hear the soft sweep 
Of a breeze bearing Hfe through that vast 
realm of death ! 
Thoughts were untroubled and dreams were 
asleep. 
The spirit lay dreadless and hopeless beneath. 
1836. 



15 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



GODS of the old mythology 
Arise in gloom and storm; 
Adramalec, bow down thy head, 

Reveal, dark fiend, thy form, 
The giant sons of Anakim 

Bowed lowest at thy shrine. 
And thy temple rose in Argola, 

With its hallowed groves of vine; 
And there was Eastern incense burnt. 

And there were garments spread, 
With the fine gold decked and broidered, 

And tinged with radiant red. 
With the radiant red of furnace flames 

That through the shadows shone. 
As the full moon when on Sinai's top 

Her rising light is thrown. 

This poem has been in some Collections attributed to 
Emily Bronte. 



I6 




Reason 



8 

Reason 



* 



MY life is cold, love's fire being dead, 
That fire self-kindled, self-consumed; 
What living warmth erewhile it shed. 
Now to how drear extinction doomed ! 



Devoid of charm, how could I dream 
My unasked love would e'er return? 

What fate, what influence, lit the flame 
I still feel inly, deeply, burn? 

Alas! there are who should not love, 
I to this dreary band belong; 

This knowing, let me henceforth prove 
Too wise to list delusion's song. 

No, Siren! Beauty is not mine. 
Affection's joys I ne'er shall know; 

Lonely will be my life's decline. 
Even as my youth is lonely now. 

a 17 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



Come Reason, Science, Learning, Thought, 

To you my heart I dedicate; 
I have a faithful subject brought, 

Faithful because most desolate. 

Fear not a wandering, feeble mind; 

Stern Sovereign, it is all your own 
To crush, to cheer, to loose, to bind; 

Unclaimed, unshared, it seeks your throne. 

Soft may the breeze of summer blow, 
Sweetly its sun in valleys shine. 

All earth around with love may glow. 

No warmth shall reach this heart of mine 

* * * 

1843. 



18 




He Saw my Hearf s IVoe 



9* 

HE saw my heart's woe, discovered my soul's 
anguish 
How in fever, in thirst, in atrophy it pined; 
Knew^e could heal, yet looked and let it languish 
To its moans spirit-deaf, to its pangs spirit- 
bHnd. 

But once a year he heard a whisper low and 
dreary, 

Appealing for aid, entreating some repl}^; 
Only when sick, soul-worn and torture-weary. 

Breathed I that prayer — heaved I that sigh. 

He was mute as is the grave, he stood vStirless as a 
tower ; 
At last I looked up, and saw I prayed to stone: 
I asked help of that which to help had no powder, 
I sought love where love was utterly un- 
known. 

Idolater I kneeled to an idol cut in rock, 

I might have slashed my flesh and drawn my 
heart's best blood. 
The Granite God had felt no tenderness, no 
shock ; 
My Baal had not seen nor heard nor under- 
stood. 

19 



Poems by CJiarlotte Bronte 



In dark remorse I rose. I rose in darker shame, 
Self-condemned I withdrew to an exile from 
my kind; 

A solitude I sought where mortal never came, 
Hoping in its wilds forgetfulness to find. 

Now, Heaven, heal the wound which I still 
deeply feel ; 
Thy glorious hosts look not in scorn on our 
poor race ; 
Thy King eternal doth no iron judgment deal 
On suffering worms who seek forgiveness, 
comfort, grace. 

He gave our hearts to love, he will not love 
despise, 
E'en if the gift be lost, as mine was long ago. 
He will forgive the fault, will bid the offender 
rise. 
Wash out with dews of bliss the fiery brand of 
woe; 

And give a sheltered place beneath the unsullied 
throne. 
Whence the soul redeemed may mark Time's 
fleeting course round earth ; 
And know its trial overpast, its sufferings gone, 
And feel the peril past of Death's immortal 
birth. 

20 



Mementos 



lO 

Mementos 

ALL in this house is mossing over; 
All is unused, and dim, and damp; 
Nor light nor warmth the rooms discover — 
Bereft for years of fire and lamp. 

The sun, sometimes in summer, enters 
The casements with reviving ray; 

But the long rains of many winters 
Moulder the very walls away. 

And outside all is ivy, clinging 
To chimney, lattice, gable grey; 

Scarcely one little red rose springing 

Through the green moss can force its way. 

Unscared, the daw and starling nestle, 
Where the tall turret rises high, 

And winds alone come near to rustle 
The thick leaves where their cradles lie. 

I sometimes think, when late at even 

I climb the stair reluctantly. 
Some shape that should be well in heaven, 

Or ill elsewhere, will pass by me. 

21 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



I fear to see the very faces, 

Familiar thirty years ago, 
Even in the old accustomed places, 

Which look so cold and gloomy now. 

I've come to close the window hither, 
At twilight, when the sun was down, 

And fear my very soul would wither, 
Lest somicthing should be dimly shown. 

Too much the buried form resembling, 
Of her who once was mistress here ; 

Lest doubtful shade, or moonbeam trembling. 
Might take her aspect, once so dear. 

* * * 

She bore in silence — but when passion 
Surged in her soul with ceaseless foam. 

The storm at last brought desolation, 
And drove her exiled from her home ; 

And silent still, she straight assembled 
The wrecks cf strength her soul retained ; 

For though the wasted body trembled, 
The unconquered mind to quail disdained. 

She crossed the sea — now lone she wanders 
By Seine's, or Rhine's, or Arno's flow: 

Fain would I know if distance renders 
Relief or comfort to her woe. 

22 



Mementos 

Fain would I know if, henceforth, ever, 
These eyes shall read in hers again 

That light of love which faded never, 

Though dimmed so long with secret pain. 

She will return, but cold and altered. 
Like all whose hopes too soon depart; 

Like all on whom have beat, unsheltered, 
The bitter blasts that blight the heart. 

No more shall I behold her lying 
Calm on a pillow, smoothed by me; 

No more that spirit, worn with sighing, 
Will know the rest of infancy. 

If still the paths of lore she follow, 
'Twill be with tired and goaded will; 

She'll only toil, the aching hollow, 
The joyless blank of life to fill. 

And oh! full oft, quite spent and weary, 
Her hand will pause, her head decline; 

That labour seems so hard and dreary, 
On which no ray of hope may shine. 

Thus the pale blight of time and sorrow 
Will shade with grey her soft, dark hair; 

Then comes the day that knows no morrow, 
And death succeeds to long despair. 

TP T* •!• 

23 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



II 

The Wood 

BUT two miles more, and then we rest ! 
Well, there is still an hour of day, 
And long the brightness of the West 
Will light us on our devious way ; 
Sit then, awhile, here in this wood — 
So total is the solitude. 

We safely may delay. 

These massive roots afford a seat. 

Which seems for weary travellers made. 

There rest ! The air is soft and sweet 
In this sequestered forest glade, 

And there are scents of flowers around. 

The evening dew draws from the ground ; 
How soothingly they spread! 

Yes; I was tired, but not at heart; 

No — that beats full of sweet content, 
For now I have my natural part 

Of action with adventure blent ; 
Cast forth on the wide world with thee, 
And all my once waste energy 

To weighty purpose bent. 

SfC ?{{ ^ 

24 



The Wood 

I am resolved that thou shalt learn 
To trust my strength as I trust thine; 

I am resolved our souls shall burn 
With equal, steady, mingling shine; 

Part of the field is conquered now, 

Our lives in the same channel flow, 
Along the self -same line ; 

And while no groaning storm is heard, 
Thou seem'st content it should be so, 

But soon as comes a warning word 

Of danger — straight thine anxious brow 

Bends over me a mournful shade, 

As doubting if my powers are made 
To ford the floods of woe. 

Know, then it is my spirit swells. 
And drinks, with eager joy, the air 

Of freedom — where at last it dwells. 
Chartered, a common task to share 

With thee, and then it stirs alert, 

And pants to learn what menaced hurt 
Demands for thee its care. 

Remember, I have crossed the deep, 
And stood with thee on deck, to gaze 

On waves that rose in threatening heap. 
While stagnant lay a heavy haze, 

25 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



Dimly confusing sea with sky, 
And baffling, even, the pilot's eye. 
Intent to thread the maze — 



Sharp blew the sleet upon my face, 
And, rising wild, the gusty wind 

Drove on those thundering waves apace 
Our crew so late had left behind ; 

But, spite of frozen shower and storm. 

So close to thee, my heart beat warm. 
And tranquil slept my mind. 

So now — nor foot-sore nor opprest 
With walking all this August day, 

I taste a heaven in this brief rest. 
This gipsy-halt beside the way. 

England's wild flowers are fair to view, 

Like balm is England's summer dew. 
Like gold her sunset ra}^ 

But the white violets, growing here, 

Are sweeter than I yet have seen, 

And ne'er did dew so pure and clear 

Distil on forest mosses green, 
As now, called forth by summer heat. 
Perfumes our cool and fresh retreat — 
These fragrant limes between. 
26 



The Wood 

That sunset! Look beneath the boughs, 
Over the copse — beyond the hills; 

How soft, yet deep and warm, it glows, 
And heaven with rich suffusion fills ; 

With hues where still the opal's tint, 

Its gleam of prisoned fire, is blent, 

Where flame through azure thrills! 

Depart we now — for fast will fade 
That solemn splendour of decline, 

And deep must be the after-shade, 
As stars alone to-night will shine; 

No moon is destined — pale — to gaze 

On such a day's vast phoenix blaze, 
A day in fires decayed ! 

There — hand-in-hand we tread again 
The mazes of this varying wood. 

And soon, amid a cultured plain, 
Girt in with fertile solitude. 

We shall our resting-place descry. 

Marked by one roof -tree, towering high 
Above a farmstead rude. 

Refreshed, crc long, with rustic fare, 
We'll seek a couch of dreamless ease; 

Courage will guard thy heart from fear. 
And Love give mine divinest peace: 

27 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



To-morrow brings more dangerous toil, 
And through its conflict and turmoil 
We'll pass, as God shall please. 

[Author's Note. — The preceding composition refers, 
doubtless, to the scenes acted in France during the last year 
of the Consulate. — C.B.] 



28 



Frances 



12 

Frances 

SHE will not sleep, for fear of dreams, 
But, rising, quits her restless bed, 
And walks where some beclouded beams 
Of moonlight through the hall are shed. 



* 



The close air of the grated tower 
Stifles a heart that scarce can beat, 

And, though so late and lone the hour. 
Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet; 

And on the pavement spread before 
The long front of the mansion grey. 

Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar. 
Which pale on grass and granite lay. 

Not long she stayed where misty moon 
And shimmering stars could on her look, 

But through the garden archway soon 
Her strange and gloomy path she took. 

29 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



Some firs, coeval with the tower, 

Their straight black boughs stretched o'er her 
head ; 
Unseen, beneath this sable bower, 

Rustled her dress and rapid tread. 

There was an alcove in that shade, 
Screening a rustic seat and stand; 

Weary she sat her down, and laid 
Her hot brow on her burning hand. 

To solitude and to the night 

Some words she now, in murmurs, said; 
And trickling through her fingers white, 

Some tears of misery she shed. 

"God help me in my grievous need, 

God help me in my inward pain; 
Which cannot ask for pity's meed, 

Which has no licence to complain; 

"Which must be borne; yet who can bear, 
Hours long, days long, a constant weight — 

The yoke of absolute despair, 
A suffering wholly desolate?" 

SfC SfS af* 

She waited — as for some reply ; 

The still and cloudy night gave none; 
Ere long, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh, 

Her heavy plaint again begun. 

30 



Frances 

"Unloved I love; unwept I weep; 

Grief I restrain, hope I repress: 
Vain is this anguish — fixed and deep; 

Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss: 

"My love awakes no love again, 
My tears collect, and fall unfelt; 

My sorrow touches none with pain, 
My humble hopes to nothing melt. 

"For me the universe is dumb. 

Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind; 
Life I must bound, existence sun 

In the strait limits of one mind; 

"That mind my own. O! narrow cell; 

Dark — imageless — a living tomb! 
There must I sleep, there wake and dwell 

Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom." 

Again she paused; a moan of pain, 

A stifled sob, alone was heard; 
Long silence followed — then again 

Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred: 

"Must it be so? Is this my fate? 

Can I nor struggle, nor contend? 
And am I doomed for years to wait, 

Watching death's lingering axe descend? 

31 



Poems by Cliarlotte Bronte 



"I've heard of heaven — I would believe; 

For if this earth indeed be all, 
Who longest lives may deepest grieve; 

Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call. 

"Oh! leaving disappointment here. 
Will man find hope on yonder coast? 

Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear, 
And oft in clouds is wholly lost. 

* * * 

"Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed? 

Rest, which was weariness on earth? 
Knowledge, which, if o'er life it beamed, 

Served but to prove it void of worth? 

* * * 

"If so, endure, my weary frame! 

And when thy anguish strikes too deep, 
And when all troubled burns life's flame. 

Think of the quiet, final sleep; 

"Think of the glorious waking-hour, 
Which will not dawn on grief and tears. 

But on a ransomed spirit's power. 
Certain and free from mortal fears. 

"Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn. 
Then from th}^ chamber, calm, descend. 

With mind nor tossed, nor anguish-torn. 
But tranquil, fixed, to wait the end." 

i$. -if- * 

32 



The Letter 



13 

The Letter 

WHAT is she writing? Watch her now, 
How fast her fingers move! 
How eagerly her youthful brow 

Is bent in thought above! 
Her long curls, drooping, shade the light, 

She puts them quick aside. 
Nor knows that band of crystals bright 

Her hasty touch untied. 
It slips adown her silken dress, 

Falls glittering at her feet; 
Unmarked it falls, for she no less 

Pursues her labour sweet. 

The very loveliest hour that shines 

Is in that deep blue sky; 
The golden sun of June declines, 

It has not caught her eye. 
The cheerful lawn, and unclosed gate, 

The white road far away, 
In vain for her light footsteps wait. 

She comes not forth to-day. 

3 33 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



There is an open door of glass 

Close by that lady's chair, 
From thence, to slopes of mossy grass. 

Descends a marble stair. 

Tall plants of bright and spicy bloom 

Around the threshold grow; 
Their leaves and blossoms shade the room 

From that sun's deepening glow. 
Why does she not a moment glance 

Between the clustering flowers, 
And mark in heaven the radiant dance 

Of evening's rosy hours? 
Oh, look again! Still fixed her eye, 

Unsmiling, earnest still, 
And fast her pen and fingers fly, 

Urged by her eager will. 

Her soul is in th' absorbing task; 

To whom, then, doth she write? 
Nay, watch her still more closel}^ ask 

Her own eyes' serious light; 
Where do they turn, as now her pen 

Hangs o'er th' unfinished line? 
Whence fell the tearful gleam that then 

Did in their dark spheres shine? 
The summer-parlour looks so dark, 

When from that sky you turn. 
And from th' expanse of that green park 

You scarce may aught discern. 

34 



The Letter 

Yet o'er the piles of porcelain rare, 

O'er flower-stand, couch, and vase, 
Sloped, as if leaning on the air, 

One picture meets the gaze. 
'Tis there she turns; you may not see, 

Distinct, what form defines 
The clouded mass of mystery 

Ybn broad gold frame confines. 
But look again; inured to shade 

Your eyes now faintly trace 
A stalwart form, a massive head, 

A firm, determined face. 

Black Spanish locks, a sunburnt cheek, 

A brow high, broad, and white, 
Where every furrow seems to speak 

Of mind and moral might. 
Is that her god? I cannot tell; 

Her eye a moment met 
Th' impending picture; then it fell 

Darkened and dimmed and wet. 
A moment more, her task is done, 

And sealed the letter lies; 
And now, towards the setting sun 

She turns her tearful eyes. 

Those tears flow over, wonder not. 

For by the inscription see 
In what a strange and distant spot 

Her heart of hearts must be! 

35 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



Three seas and many a league of land 

That letter must pass o'er, 
Ere read by him to whose loved hand 

'Tis sent from England's shore. 
Remote colonial wilds detain 

Her husband, loved though stern; 
She, mid that smiling English scene, 

Weeps for his wished return. 



36 



Presentiment 



14 

Presentiment 

"QISTER, you've sat there all the day, 

O Come to the hearth awhile; 
The wind so wildly sweeps away, 

The clouds so darkly pile. 
That open book has lain, unread. 

For hours upon your knee; 
You've never smiled nor turned your head; 

What can you, sister, see?" 

"Come hither, Jane, look down the field; 

How dense a mist creeps on! 
The path, the hedge, are both concealed, 

Ev'n the white gate is gone; 
No landscape through the fog I trace, 

No hill with pastures green; 
All featureless is Nature's face, 

All masked in clouds her mien. 

"Scarce is the rustle of a leaf 

Heard in our garden now; 
The year grows old, its days wax brief. 

The tresses leave its brow. 

37 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



The rain drives fast before the wind, 

The sky is blank and grey; 
O Jane, what sadness fills the mind 

On such a dreary day!" 

"You think too much, my sister dear; 

You sit too long alone; 
What though November days be drear, 

Full soon will they be gone. 
I've swept the hearth, and placed your chair, 

Come, Emma, sit by me; 
Our own fireside is never drear. 
Though late and wintry wane the year, 

Though rough the night may be." 

*'The peaceful glow of our fireside 

Imparts no peace to me: 
My thoughts would rather wander wide 

Than r-est, dear Jane, with thee. 
I'm on a distant journey bound. 

And if, about my heart. 
Too closely kindred ties were wound, 

'Twould break when forced to part. 



<< ( 



Soon will November days be o'er:' 
Well have you spoken, Jane! 
My own forebodings tell me more — 
For me, I know by presage sure. 
They'll ne'er return again: 

38 



Presentiment 

Ere long, nor sun nor storm to me 

Will bring or joy or gloom; 
They reach not that Eternity 

Which soon will be my home." 

Eight months are gone, the summer sun 

Sets in a glorious sky; 
A quiet field, all green and lone, 

Receives its rosy dye. 
Jane sits upon a shaded stile, 

Alone she sits there now; 
Her head rests on her hand the while 

And thought o'ercasts her brow. 

She's thinking of one winter's day, 

A few short months ago, 
When Emma's bier was borne away 

O'er wastes of frozen snow. 
She's thinking how that drifted snow 

Dissolved in spring's first gleam. 
And how her sister's memory now 

Fades, even as fades a dream. 

The snow will whiten earth again, 

But Emma comes no more; 
She left, mid winter's sleet and rain. 

This world for Heaven's far shore. 

39 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



On Beulah's hills she wanders now, 
On Eden's tranquil plain; 

To her shall Jane hereafter go, 
She ne'er shall come to Jane! 



40 



The Teacher' s Monologiie 



15 

^ The Teacher's Monologue 

THE room is quiet, thoughts alone 
People its mute tranquillity ; 
The yoke put off, the long task done, — 

I am, as it is bliss to be. 
Still and untroubled. Now, I see. 

For the first time, how soft the day 
O'er waveless water, stirless tree. 

Silent and sunny, wings its way. 
Now, as I watch that distant hill, 

So faint, so blue, so far removed. 
Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill. 

That home where I am known and loved 
It lies beyond; yon azure brow 

Parts me from all Earth holds for me; 
And, morn and eve, my yearnings flow 

Thitherward tending, changelessly. 
My happiest hours, ay! all the time, 

I love to keep in memory, 
Lapsed among moors, ere life's first prime 

Decayed to dark anxiety. 

41 



Poems by Cliarlofte Bronte 



Sometimes, I think a narrow heart 

Makes me thus mourn those far away, 
And keeps my love so far apart, 

From friends and friendships of to-day; 
Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dream 

I treasure up so jealously, 
All the sweet thoughts I live on seem 

To vanish into vacancy : 
And then, this stranii^c, coarse world around 

Seems all that's ])al])ablc and true; 
And every sight and every sound 

Combine my spirit to subdue 
To aching grief; so void and lone 

Is Life, and Earth — so worse than vain. 
The hopes that, in my own heart sown, 

And cherished by such sun and rain 
As Joy and transient Sorrow shed, 

Have ripened to a harvest there: 
Alas! methinks I hear it said, 

"Thy golden sheaves are empty air." 



All fades awa}^; my very home 

I think will soon be desolate; 
I hear, at times, a warning come 

Of bitter partings at its gate; 
And, if I should return and see 

The hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair; 

42 



The Tcaclie/ s Monologue 



And hear it whispered mournfully, 

That farewells have been spoken there, 
What shall I do, and whither turn? 
Where look for peace? When cease to mourn? 



43 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



i6 



'T^IS not the air I wished to play, 

1 The strain I wished to sing; 
My wilful spirit slipped away 

And struck another string. 
I neither wanted smile nor tear, 

Bright joy nor bitter woe, 
But just a song that sweet and clear. 

Though haply sad, might flow. 

A quiet song, to solace me 

When sleep refused to come; 
A strain to chase despondency 

When sorrowful for home. 
In vain I try ; I cannot sing ; 

All feels so cold and dead; 
No wild distress, no gushing spring 

Of tears in anguish shed; 

But all the impatient gloom of one 

Who waits a distant day. 
When, some great task of suffering done. 

Repose shall toil repay. 

44 



' Tis Not the Air 

For youth departs, and pleasure flies, 

And life consumes away, 
And youth's rejoicing ardour dies 

Beneath this drear delay; 

And Patience, weary with her yoke, 

Is yielding to despair, 
And Health's elastic spring is broke 

Beneath the strain of care. 
Life will be gone ere I have lived; 

Where now is Life's first prime? 
I've worked and studied, longed and grieved. 

Through all that rosy time. 

To toil, to think, to long, to grieve, — 

Is such my future fate? 
The morn was dreary ; must the eve 

Be also desolate? 
Well, such a life at least makes Death 

A welcome, wished-for friend; 
Then, aid me. Reason, Patience, Faith, 

To suffer to the end! 



45 



Poems by CJiarlotte Bronte 



17 

Evening Solace 

THE human heart has hidden treasures, 
In secret kept, in silence sealed; — 
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the 
pleasures, 
Whose charms were broken if revealed. 
And days may pass in gay confusion, 

And nights in rosy riot fly. 
While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion, 
The memory of the Past may die. 

But there are hours of lonely musing. 

Such as in evening silence come. 
When, soft as birds their pinions closing, 

The heart's best feelings gather home. 
Then in our souls there seems to languish 

A tender grief that is not woe; 
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish, 

Now cause but some mild tears to flow 

And feelings, once as strong as passions. 
Float softly back — a faded dream ; 

Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations, 
The tale of others' sufferings seem. 

46 



Evening Solace 

Oh! when the heart is freshly bleeding, 
How longs it for that time to be, 

When, through the mist of years receding. 
Its woes but live in reverie ! 

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer, 

On evening shade and loneliness; 
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer. 

Feel no untold and strange distress — 
Only a deeper impulse given, 

By lonely hour and darkened room. 
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven 

Seeking a life and world to come. 



47 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



i8 

Watching and Wishing ^ 

OH, would I were the golden light 
That shines around thee now, 
As slumber shades the spotless white 

Of that unclouded brow ! 
It watches through each changeful dream 

Thy features' varied play; 
It meets thy waking eyes' soft gleam 
By dawn — by opening day. 

Oh, would I were the crimson veil 

Above thy couch of snow. 
To dye that cheek so soft, so pale, 

With my reflected glow ! 
Oh, would I were the cord of gold 

Whose tassel set with pearls 
Just meets the silken cov 'ring's fold, 

And rests upon thy curls, 

^ Fi rst published in the Cornhill Magazine ^ December, 
i860. 

48 



JVatching and IVishing 

Dishevell'd in thy rosy sleep, 
And shading soft thy dreams; 

Across their bright and raven sweep 
The golden tassel gleams ! 

I would be anything for thee, 
My love — my radiant love — 

A flower, a bird, for sympathy, 

- A watchful star above. 



49 



Poems by CJiarloite Bronte 



19 

When Thou Steepest 

WHEN thou sleepest, lulled in night, 
Art thou lost in vacancy? 
Does no silent inward light, 

Softly breaking, fall on thee? 
Does no dream on quiet wing 

Float a moment, 'mid that ray, 
Touch some answering mental string, 
Wake a note and pass away? 

When thou watchest, as the hours 

Mute and blind are speeding on, 
O'er that rayless path, where lowers 

Muffled midnight, black and lone; 
Comes there nothing hovering near, 

Thought or half reality, 
Whispering marvels in thine ear, 

Every word a mystery, 

Chanting low an ancient lay, 

Every plaintive note a spell. 
Clearing memory's clouds away, 

Showing scenes thy heart loves well? 

50 



IVhen Than Sleepest 



Songs forgot, in childhood sung, 
Airs in youth beloved and known, 

Whispered by that airy tongue, 
Once again are made thine own. 

Be it dream in haunted sleep. 

Be it thought in vigil lone, 
Drint^'st thou not a rapture deep 

From the feeling? 'Tis thine own, 
All thine own; thou need'st not tell 

What bright form thy slumber blest;— 
All thine own; remember well 

Night and shade were round thy rest. 

Nothing looked upon thy bed, 

Save the lonely watch-light's gleam; 
Not a whisper, not a tread 

Scared thy spirit's glorious dream. 
Sometimes, when the midnight gale 

Breathed a moan and then was still, 
Seemed the spell of thought to fail, 

Checked by one ecstatic thrill; 

Felt as all external things, 

Robed in moonlight, smote thine eye; 
Then thy spirit's waiting wings 

Quivered, trembled, spread to fly; 

51 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



Then th' aspirer wildly swelling 
Looked, where 'mid transcendency 

Star to star was mutely telling 

Heaven's resolve and fate's decree. 

Oh! it longed for holier fire 

Than this spark in earthly shrine; 
Oh! it soared, and higher, higher, 

Sought to reach a home divine. 
Hopeless quest! soon weak and weary 

Flagged the pinion, drooped the plume, 
And again in sadness dreary 

Came the baffled wanderer home. 

And again it turned for soothing 

To th' unfinished, broken dream; 
While, the ruffled current smoothing. 

Thought rolled on her startled stream. 
I have felt this cherished feeling, 

Sweet and known to none but me; 
Still I feel it nightly healing 

Each dark day's despondency. 



52 



■ 



Parting 



20 

Parting 

THERE'S no use in weeping, 
Though we are condemned to part: 
There's such a thing as keeping 
A remembrance in one's heart: 

There's such a thing as dwelling 

On the thought ourselves have nursed, 

And with scorn and courage telling 
The world to do its worst. 

We'll not let its follies grieve us, 
We'll just take them as they come; 

And then every day will leave us 
A merry laugh for home. 

When we've left each friend and brother, 
When we're parted wide and far, 

We will think of one another. 
As ev'n better than we are. 

Every glorious sight above us, 
Every pleasant sight beneath. 

We'll connect with those that love us, 
Whom we truly love till death ! 

53 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



In the evening, when we're sitting 

By the fire, perchance alone, 
Then shall heart with warm heart meeting, 

Give responsive tone for tone. 

We can burst the bonds which chain us. 
Which cold human hands have wrought, 

And where none shall dare restrain us 
We can meet again, in thought. 



ig, 



So there's no use in weepin< 
Bear a cheerful spirit still; 

Never doubt that Fate is keeping 
Future good for present ill ! 



54 



JVinter Stores 



21 

Winter Stores 

WE take from life one little share 
And say that this shall be 
A space, redeemed from toil and care, 
From tears and sadness free. 

And, haply, Death unstrings his bow, 

And Sorrow stands apart, 
And, for a little while, we know 

The sunshine of the heart 

He 4c 4c 

But Time, thou^^h viewlessly it flies, 

And slowly, will not stay; 
Alike, through clear and clouded skies, 

It cleaves its silent way. 

Alike the bitter cup of grief. 

Alike the draught of bliss, 
Its progress leaves but moment brief 

For baffled Hps to kiss. 

55 



Poems by CJiarloite Bronte 



The sparkling draught is dried away, 

The hour of rest is gone, 
And urgent voices, round us, say, 

"Ho, lingerer, hasten on!" 



« « 



56 



Eventide 



22 

m Eventide"^ 

:fli if. ^ 

THE house was still, the room was still, 
'Twas eventide in June; 
A caged canary to the sun 
Then setting, trilled a tune. 

A free bird on that lilac bush 

Outside the lattice heard, 
He listened long — there came a hush, 

He dropped an answering word. 



57 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



23* 



IT is not at an hour like this 
We would remember those we love, 
As the far hills commingling kiss 

That grey and sunless heaven above, 
All dim and chilled, a time of tears 
And d^dng hopes and gathering fears. 

But I am lone, and so art thou. 
And leagues of land between us lie, 

And though we moan expiring now. 
One could not watch the other die; 

And till corruption's work was done. 

Neither could gaze his idol on. 

And well I know this cloudy close, 
Sealing a long dark day of gloom, 

Will bring o'er that soft brow's repose 
A token of untimely gloom; 

And it will droop in heart-felt pain, 

As though it ne'er might rise again. 

All pale that cheek; no fevered glow 
Of longing, watching, waiting love, 

58 



// Is Not at an Hour 



No swell of that white breast to show 

How pants in hope my suffering dove; 
But one hand on the other laid, 
She sits and weeps in twilight's shade. 



59 



Poems by Charlotte Bronte 



24* 



4c 4: 4: 

SPEAK of the North ! A lonely moor 
vSilent and dark and trackless swells, 
The waves of some wild streamlet pour 
Hurriedly through its ferny dells. 

Profoundly still the twilight air, 
Lifeless the landscape; so we deem. 
Till like a phantom gliding near 
A stag bends down to drink the stream. 

And far away a mountain zone, 
A cold, white waste of snow-drifts lies, 
And one star, large and soft and lone, 
Silently lights the unclouded skies. 

4: 4: 4: 



60 



POEMS BY EMILY BRONTE 



6i 



/ Know Not How It Falls on Me 



1KN0W not how it falls on me, 
This summer evening, hushed and lone; 
Yet the faint wind comes soothingly 
With something of an olden tone. 

Forgive me if I've shunned so long 
Your gentle greeting, earth and air! 

But sorrow withers e'en the strong, 
And who can fight against despair? 

June 3, 1831. 



63 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



4s * 4: 

LADY, watch Apollo's journey; 
Thus thy first hour's course shall be: 
If his beams through summer vapours 

Warm the earth all placidly, 
Her days shall pass like a pleasant dream 
sweet tranquillity. 



m 



If it darken, if a shadow 

Quench his rays and summon rain, 
Flowers may open, buds may blossom. 

Bud and flower alike are vain; 
Her days shall pass like a mournful story in care 
and tears and pain. 

If the wind be fresh and free. 

The wide skies clear and cloudless blue, 
The woods and fields and golden fiowers 

Sparkling in sunshine and in dew, 
Her days shall pass in Glory's light the world's 
drear desert through. 

July 12, 1836. 



64 



The Evening Sun IVas Sinkmg 



THE evening sun was sinking down 
On low green hills and clustered trees; 
It was a scene as fair and lone 

As ever felt the soothing breeze 
That cools the grass when day is gone, 

And gives the waves a brighter blue, 
And marks the soft white clouds sail on. 

Like spirits of ethereal dew, 
Which all the morn had hovered o'er 

The azure flowers where they were nursed. 
And now return to Heaven once more, 

Where their bright glories shone at first. 

Septemher 23, 1836. 



65 



Poems by Emily Bronle 



LOUD without the wind was roaring 
Through the wan autumnal sky ; 
Drenching wet the cold rain pouring 
Spoke of stormy winter nigh. 

All, too like that dreary eve 
Sighed without repining grief, 
Sighed at first, but sighed not long; 

Sweet, how softly sweet it came — 
Wild words of an ancient song, 

Undefined, without a name. 

November, 1836. 



66 



Redbreast, Early in the Morning 



REDBREAST, early in the morning 
Dark and cold and cloudy grey, 
Wildly tender is thy music, 
Chasing angry thought away. 

My heart is not enraptured now, 

My eyes are full of tears. 
And constant sorrow on my brow 

Has done the work of years. 

It was not hope that wrecked at once 

The spirit's calm in storm, 
But a long life of solitude 
Hopes quenched, and rising thoughts subdued, 

A bleak November's calm. 

What woke it then? A little child 
Strayed from its father's cottage door, 

And in the hour of moonlight wild 
Lay lonely on the desert moor. 

I heard it then, you heard it too, 
And seraph sweet it sang to you; 
But like the shriek of misery 
That wild, wild music wailed to me! 

February, 1837. 



67 



Poems by Emily Bronfe 



* nn WAS just the time of eve 
1 When parted ghosts might come 
Above their prisoned dust to grieve, 
And wail their woeful doom. 

And truly at my side 

I saw a shadowy thing, 
Most dim, and yet its presence there 
Curdled my blood with ghastly fear 

And ghastlier wondering. 

if. if. if. 

I fell down on the stone 
But could not turn away; 
My words died in a voiceless moan, 
When I began to pray. 

And still it bent above. 
Its features full in view; 
It seemed close by, and yet more far 
Than this world from the farthest star 
That tracks the boundless blue. 

68 



' Twas J-usf the Time of Eve 

Indeed 'twas not the space 
Of earth or time between; 
But the sea of deep eternity, 
The gulf o'er which mortality 
Has never never been. 

* 4: ♦ 

June 10, 1837. 



69 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



IS AW thee, child, one stimmer day, 
Suddenly leave thy cheerful play. 
And in the green grass lowly lying 
I listened to thy mournful sighing. 

I knew the wish that waked that wail, 

I knew the source whence sprung those tears ; 

You longed for fate to raise the veil 
That darkened over coming years. 

The anxious prayer was heard, and power 
Was given me, in that silent hour. 
To open to an infant's eye 
The portals of futurity. 

But, child of dust, the fragrant flowers. 
The bright blue flowers and velvet sod. 

Were strange conductors to the bowers 
Thy daring footsteps must have trod. 

* * * 

Those tiny hands in vain essay 
To brush the shadowy fiend away; 
There is a horror on his brow, 
An anguish in his bosom now; 

70 



I Saw Thee, Child 



A fearful anguish in his eyes, 

Fixed strainedly on the vacant air; 

Hoarsely bursts in long-drawn sighs, 
His panting breath enchained by fear. 

Poor child! if spirits such as I 
Could weep o'er human misery, 
A tear might flow, ay, many a tear, 
To see the dread that lies before. 
To see the sunshine disappear; 

And hear the stormy waters roar. 
Breaking upon a desolate shore. 
Cut off from hope in early day. 
From earth and glory cut away. 

But he is doomed, and Morning's light 
Must image forth the scowl of night. 
And childhood's flower must waste its bloom 
Beneath the shadow of the tomb. 

July, 1837. 



71 



Poeins by Emily Bronte 



8 



SLEEP not, dream not; this bright day 
Will not, cannot last for aye; 
Bliss like thine is bought by years 
Dark with torment and with tears. 



Sweeter far than placid pleasure, 
Purer, higher beyond measure, 
Yet, alas! the sooner turning 
Into hopeless, endless mourning. 

I love thee, boy, for all divine, 

All full of God thy features shine. 

Darling enthusiast, holy child, 

Too good for this world 's warring wild ; 

Too heavenly now, but doomed to be, 

Hell-like in heart and misery. 

And what shall change that angel brow, 
And quench that spirit's glorious glow? 
Relentless laws that disallow 
True virtue and true jo}^ below. 

72 



Sleep Not, Dream Not 



I too depart, I too decline, 
And make thy path no longer mine. 
'Tis thus that human minds will turn, 
All doomed alike to sin and mourn ; 
Yet all with long gaze fixed afar, 
Adoring virtue's distant star. 

July 26, 1837. 



73 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



'^"PHE sun has set, and the long grass now 
1 Waves dreamily in the evening wind; 
And the wild bird has flown from that old grey 

stone, 
In some warm nook a couch to find. 

In all the lonely landscape round 
I see no light and hear no sound, 
Except the wind that far away 
Comes sighing o'er the heathy sea. 

August, 1837. 



I 



74 



Alone I Sat 



10 



ALONE I sat ; the summer day 
'Had died in smiling light away; 
I saw it die, I watched it fade 
From the misty hill and breezeless glade. 

And thoughts within my soul were rushing, 

And my heart bowed beneath their power; 
And tears within my eyes were gushing 
Because I could not speak the feeling, 
The solemn joy around me stealing, 
In that divine, untroubled hour. 

I asked myself, why has Heaven 

Denied the precious gift to me, 
The glorious gift to many given. 

To speak their thoughts in poetry? 

Dreams have encircled me, I said. 

From careless childhood's sunny time; 

Visions by ardent fancy fed 

Since life was in its morning prime. 

75 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



But now, when I had hoped to sing, 
My fingers strike a tuneless string, 
And still the burden of the strain — 
I strive no more, 'tis all in vain! 

if. if. if. 

August, 1837. 



76 



The Organ Swells 



II 



THE organ swells, the trumpets sound, 
The lamps in triumph glow. 
And none of all those thousand round 
Regard who sleeps below. 

Those haughty eyes that tears should fill 

Glance clearly, cloudlessly; 
Those bounding breasts that grief should thrill 

From thought of grief are free. 

His subjects and his soldiers there 

They blessed his rising bloom. 
But none a single sigh can spare 

To breathe above his tomb. 

Comrades in arms, I've looked to mark 

One shade of feeling swell, 
As your feet stood above the dark 

Recesses of his cell. 



September 30, 1837. 



77 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



12 

FAR away is the land of rest — 
Thousand miles are stretched between, 
Many a mountain's stormy crest, 
Many a desert void of green. 

Wasted, worn is the traveller. 
Dark his heart and dim his eye; 

Without hope or comforter, 

Faltering, faint, and ready to die. 

Often he looks to the ruthless sky, 
Often he looks o'er his dreary road, 

Often he wishes down to lie 

And render up life's tiresome load. 

But yet faint not, mournful man; 

Leagues on leagues are left behind 
Since your aimless course began; 

Then go on, to toil resigned. 

If you still despair, control. 

Hush its whispers in your breast; 

You shall reach the final goal. 
You shall win the land of rest. 

October^ 1837. 

78. 



The Old Church Tower 



13 

THE old church tower and garden wall 
Are black with autumn rain, 
And dreary winds foreboding call 
The darkness down again. 

I watched how evening took the place 

Of glad and glorious day; 
I watched a deeper gloom efface 

The evening's lingering ray. 

October, 1837. 



79 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



14 



THE night is darkening round me, 
The wild winds coldly blow ; 
But a tyrant spell has bound me, 
And I cannot, cannot go. 

The giant trees are bending 

Their bare boughs weighed with snow, 
The storm is fast descending. 

And yet I cannot go. 

Clouds beyond clouds above me, 
Wastes beyond wastes below; 

But nothing dread can move me — 
I will not, cannot go. 

Novemher, 1837. 



80 



Sleep Brings No yoy to Me 



15 

SLEEP brings no joy to me, 
Remembrance never dies, 
My soul is given to mystery, 
And lives in sighs. 

Sleep brings no rest to me; 
The shadows of the dead 
My wakening eyes may never see 
Surround my bed. 

Sleep brings no hope to me, 

In soundest sleep they come, 
And with their doleful imag'ry 
Deepen the gloom. 

Sleep brings no strength to me, 
No power renewed to brave; 
I only sail a wilder sea, 
A darker wave. 

Sleep brings no friend to me 
To soothe and aid to bear; 
They all gaze on, how scornfully, 
And I despair. 

6 81 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



Sleep brings no wish to fret 

My harassed heart beneath ; 
My only wish is to forget 

In endless sleep of death. 

November, 1837. 



82 



strong I Stand 



i6 



STRONG I stand, though I have borne 
Anger, hate, and bitter scorn; 
Strong I stand, and laugh to see 
How mankind have fought with me. 

Shade of history, I condemn 
All the puny ways of men; 
Free my heart, my spirit free, 
Beckon, and I'll follow thee. 

False and foolish mortal, know, 
If you scorn the world's disdain, 
Your mean soul is far below 
Other worms, however vain. 

Thing of Dust, with boundless pride. 
Dare you ask me for a guide? 
With the humble I will be; 
Haughty men are naught to me. 

November f 1837. 



83 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



17 

To a Wreath of Snow 

O TRANSIENT voyager of heaven! 
O silent sign of winter skies ! 
What adverse wind thy sail has driven 
To dungeons where a prisoner lies? 

Methinks the hands that shut the sun 
So sternly from this mourning brow 

Might still their rebel task have done, 
And checked a thins: so frail as thou. 



'^t^ 



They would have done it, had they known 
The talisman that dwelt in thee, 

For all the suns that ever shone 
Have never been so kind to me ! 

For many a week and many a day 

My heart was weighed with sinking gloom, 

When morning rose in mourning grey 
And faintly lit my prison room. 

But angel like, when I awoke. 

Thy silvery form, so soft and fair, 

Shining through darkness, sweetly spoke 
Of cloudy skies and mountains bare, 

84 



To a PVreath of Snow 



The dearest to a mountaineer 

Who all life long has loved the snow 

That crowned his native summits drear, 
Better than greenest plains below. 

And, voiceless, soulless messenger, 
Thy presence wakes a thrilling tone 

That comforts me while thou art here. 
And will sustain when thou art gone. 

December, 1837. 



85 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



i8 



I DIE, but when the grave shall press 
The heart so long endeared to thee, 
When earthly cares no more distress. 
And earthly joys are nought to me, 

Weep not, but think that I have passed 
Before thee o'er "a sea of gloom, 

Have anchored safe, and rest at last, 
Where tears and mourning cannot come. 

'Tis I should weep to leave thee here 
On that dark ocean sailing drear, 
With storms around and fears before. 
And no kind light to point the shore. 

* * * 
December ^ 1837. 



86 



O Mother, I Am Not Regretting 



19 

O MOTHER, I am not regretting 
To leave this wretched world below, 
If there be nothing but forgetting 
In that dark land to which I go. 

4: * 4: 

Twice twelve short years, and all is over; 

And day and night to rise no more, 
And never more to be a rover 

Along the fields, the woods, the shore. 

And never more at early dawning 

To watch the stars of midnight wane. 

To breathe the breath of summer morning, 
And see its sunshine ne'er again. 

I hear the abbey bells are ringing, 

Methinks their chime sounds faint and drear, 
Or else the wind is adverse winging, 

And wafts their music from my ear. 

The wind, the winter night is speaking 

Of thoughts and things that should not stay ; 

Mother, come near! my heart is breaking, 
I cannot bear to go away. 

87 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



And I must go whence no returning 
To soothe your grief or calm your care. 

Nay, do not weep; that bitter mourning 
Tortures my soul with wild despair. 



4c 

December 14, 1837. 



88 



Weaned from Life 



20 



WEANED from life and flown away 
In the morning of thy day, 
Bound in everlasting gloom, 
Buried in a hapless tomb. 

Yet upon thy bended knee 

Thank the power that banished thee; 

Chain and bar and dungeon wall 

Saved thee from a deadlier thrall. 

Thank the power that made thee part 

Ere that parting broke thy heart. 

Wildly rushed the mountain spring 

From its source of fern and ling ; 

How invincible its roar. 

Had its waters worn the shore! 

February, 1838. 



89 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



21 



O WANDER not so far away! 
love, forgive this selfish tear ; 
It may be sad for thee to stay, 
But how can I live lonely here? 

The still May morn is warm and bright, 
Sweet flowers are fresh, and grass is green. 

And in the haze of glorious light 
Our long low hills are scarcely seen. 

Our woods — e'en now their young leaves hide 
The blackbird and the throstle well ; 

And high in heaven so blue and wide 
A thousand strains of Music swell. 

He looks on all with eyes that speak 

So deep, so drear a woe to me! 
There is a faint red on his cheek 

Not like the bloom I used to see. 

Can Death — yes, Death he is thine own! 

The grave shall close those limbs around, 
And hush, for ever hush the tone, 

I loved above all earthly sound. 

90 



O Wander Not So Far Away ! 



Well! pass away with the other flowers; 

Too dark for them, too dark for thee 
Are the hours to come, the joyless hours, 

That time is treasuring up for me. 

If thou hast sinned in tliis world of care, 
'Twas but the dust of thy drear abode; 

Thy' soul was pure when it entered here. 
And pure will it go again to God. 

February 20, 1838. 



91 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



22 



Song 

THIS shall be thy lullaby, 
Rocking on the stormy sea; 
Though it roar in thunder wild, 
Sleep, stilly sleep, thou dark-haired child! 

When our shuddering boat was crossing 
Eldern's lake so rudely tossing. 
Then 'twas first my nursling smiled; 
Sleep, softly sleep, my fair-browed child! 

Waves above thy cradle break. 
Foamy tears are on thy check, 
Yet the ocean's self grows mild 
When it bears my slumbering child. 

May, 1838. 



92 



Douglas' Ride 



23 
Douglas' Ride 



"is' 



WE'LL narrower draw the circle round, 
And hush that music's solemn sound, 
And quench the lamp and stir the fire, 
To rouse its flickering radiance higher ; 
Loop up the window's velvet veil, 
That we may hear the night-wind wail, 
For wild those gusts, and well those chimes 
Blend with a song of troubled times. 

July II, 1838. 



93 



Poems by Emily Dronte 



24 



■II 



WHERE were ye all? and where wert thou?_ 
I saw an eye that shone like thine 
But dark curls waved around his brow, 
And his star-glance was strange to mine. 

And yet a dreamlike comfort came 
Into my heart and anxious eye, 
And trembling j^et to hear his name, 
I bent to listen watchfully. 



October, 1838. 



94 



The Desert Moor Is Dark 



25 



THE desert moor is dark, there is tempest in 
the air ; 
I have breathed my only wish in one last, one 

burning prayer, 
A prayer that would come forth altho' it lingered 

long; 
That set on fire my heart, but froze upon my 
tongue. 

And now, it shall be done before the morning 

rise ; 
I will not watch the sun ascend in yonder skies. 
One task alone remains — thy pictured face to 

view, 
And then I go to prove if God, at least, be true! 

Do I not see thee now? Thy black resplendent 

hair; 
The glory-beaming brow, and smile how heavenly 

fair! 
Thine eyes are turned away — those eyes I would 

not see ; 

95 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



Their dark, their deadly ray would more than 
madden me. 

•If. if. if. 

Oh ! could I see thy lids weighed down in cheer- 
less woe ; 

Too full to hide their tears, too stern to overflow ; 

Oh! could I know thy soul with equal grief was 
torn, 

This fate might be endured — this anguish might 
be borne. 

How gloomy grows the night! 'Tis Gondal's 

wind that blows ; 
I shall not tread again the deep glens where it rose. 
I feel it on my face — Where, wild blast! dost 

thou roam? 
What do we, wanderer, here, so far away from 

home? 

I do not need thy breath to cool my death-cold 

brow; 
But go to that far land, where she is shining now; 
Tell her my latest wish, tell her my dreary doom ; 
Say that my pangs are past, but hers are yet to 

come. 

Vain words, vain, frenzied thoughts! No ear 

can hear me call. 
Lost in the desert air my frantic curses fall. 

96 



The Desert Moor Is Dark 



And could she see me now, perchance her lip 

would smile, 
Would smile in careless pride and utter scorn the 

while ! 
And yet for all her hate, each parting glance 

would tell 
A stronger passion breathed, burned in this last 

farewell — 
Unconquered in my soul the Tyrant rules me 

still: 
Life bows to my control, but Love I cannot kill! 

November i, 1838. 



97 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



26 



O DREAM, where art thou now? 
Long years have passed away 
Since last from off thine angel brow 
I saw the light decay. 

Alas! alas for me! 

Thou wert so bright and fair, 
I could not think thy memory 

Would yield me nought but care! 

The moonbeam and the storm, 
The summer eve divine. 

The silent night of solemn calm. 

The full moon's cloudless shine, 

Were once entwined with thee, 
But now with weary pain 

Lost vision! 'tis enough for me 
Thou canst not shine again. 

November 3, 1838. 



98 



There Swept A down That Dreary Glen 



27 



THERE swept adown that dreary glen 
A wilder sound than mountain wind — 
The thrilling shouts of fighting men, 
With something sadder far behind. 

The thrilling shouts they died away 
Before the night came greyly down, 

But closed not with the closing day 
The choking sob, the tortured moan. 

Down in a hollow sunk in shade, 

Where dark forms waved in secret gloom, 
A ruined, bleeding form was laid, 

Waiting the death that was to come. 

November, 1838. 



99 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



2^ 



HOW still, how happy! These are words 
That once would scarce agree together; 
I loved the splashing of the surge, 

The changing heaven, the breezy weather, 

More than smooth seas and cloudless skies, 
And solemn, soothing, softened airs 

That in the forest woke no sighs, 

And from the green spray shook no tears. 

How still, how happy! now I feel 
Where silence dwells is sweeter far 

Than laughing mirth with joyous swell, 
However pure its raptures are. 

Come, sit down on this sunny stone; 

'Tis wintry light o'er flow'rless moors; 
But sit, for we are all alone, 

And clear expand heaven's breathless shores. 

I would that in the withered grass 

Spring's budding wreaths we might discern, 

The violet's eye might shyly flash, 

And young leaves shoot among the fern. 

100 



How Still, How Happy I 

It is but thought — full many a night 
The snow shall clothe these hills afar; 

And storms shall add a drearier blight, 
And winds shall wage a wilder war, 

Before the lark may herald in 

Fresh foliage, twined with blossoms fair, 
And, summer days again begin 

Their glory-haloed crown to wear. 

Yet my heart loves December's smile 
As much as July's golden gleam! 

Then let me sit, and watch the while 
The blue ice curdling on the stream. 

December 7, 1838. 



lOI 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



29 

* * * 

HOW deep into the wilderness 
My horse had strayed, I cannot say; 
But neither morsel nor caress 

Would urge him farther on the way. 

So loosening from his neck the rein, 
I set my worn companion free, 

And billowy hill and boundless plain 
Full soon divided him from me. 



It was about the middle night 
And under such a starless dome, 

When gliding from the mountain's height, 
I saw a shadowy spirit come. 




Her wavy hair on her shoulders bare. 

It shone like soft clouds round the moon; 

Her noiseless feet, like melting sleet. 

Gleamed white a moment, then were gone. 

•I* ••* •n 

January 12, 1839. 



102 



May Flowers Are Opening 



30 

MAY flowers are opening, 
And leaves unfolding free; 
There are bees in every blossom, 
And birds on every tree. 

The sun is gladly shining. 
The stream sings merrily; 

But lonely I am pining, 
And all is dark to me. 

cold, cold is my heart! 
It will not, cannot rise; 

It feels no sympathy 

With those refulgent skies. 

Dead, dead is my joy, 
I long to be at rest; 

1 wish the damp earth covered 

This desolated breast. 

If I were quite alone, 
It might not be so drear. 

When all my hope was gone ; 
At least I could not fear. 
103 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



But the glad eyes around me 
Must weep as mine have done, 

And I must see the final gloom 
Eclipse their morning sun. 

If heaven would rain on me 
That future storm of care, 

So their fond hearts were free, 
I'd be content to bear. 

Alas! as lightning withers 
The young and aged tree. 

Both they and I shall fall beneath 
The fate we cannot flee. 



January 25, 1839. 



104 



The Absent One 



31 

The Absent One 

FROM our evening fireside now 
Merry laugh and cheerful tone, 
Smiling eye and cloudless brow, 
Mirth and music all are flown. 

Yet the grass before the door 

Grows as green in April rain, 
And as blithely as before 

Larks have poured their day-long strain. 

* * * 

One is absent, and for one, 
Cheerless, chill is our hearthstone. 
One is absent, and for him 
Cheeks are pale and eyes are dim. 



Just as once, through sun and mist 
I have climbed the mountain's breast, 
Still my gun with certain aim 
Brought to earth the fluttering game : 

105 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



But the very dogs repined; 

Though I called with whistle shrill, 
Listlessly they^ lagged behind, 

Looking backward o'er the hill. 

Sorrow was not vocal there; 
Mute their pain and my despair; 
But the joy of life was flown — 
He was gone, and we were lone. 

So it is by morn and eve; 

So it is in field and hall; 
For the absent one we grieve ; 

One being absent, saddens all. 

April 19, 1839. 

^"Tay (or Tray) and Carlo" is a variation in one MS, 



106 



Song 



32 

S07lg 

KING JULIUS left the south country, 
His banners all bravely flying; 
His followers went out with Jubilee, 
But they shall return with sighing. 

Loud arose the triumphal hymn, 
The drums were loudly rolling; 

Yet you might have heard in distant din 
How a passing bell was tolling. 

* * * 

April 20, 1839. 



107 



Poeins by Rmily Bronte 



33 



SILENT he sat. That stormy breast 
At length, I said, has deigned to rest; 
At length above that spirit flows 
The waveless ocean of repose. 



Let me draw near; 'twill soothe to view 
His dark eyes dimmed with holy dew; 
Remorse even now may wake within, 
And half unchain his soul from sin. 



Perhaps this is the destined hour 
When Hell shall lose its fatal power, 
And Heaven itself shall bend above 
To hail the soul redeemed by love. 

Unmarked I gazed; my idle thought 
Passed with the ray whose shine it caught ; 
One glance revealed how little care 
He felt for all the beauty there. 

1 08 



Silent He Sat 

Oh! crime can make the heart grow old 
Sooner than years of wearing woe, 

Can turn the warmest bosom cold 
As winter wind or polar snow. 

April 28, 1839. 



109 



Poems by Emily Bro7iie 



34 

To a Bluebell 



SACRED watcher, wave thy bells! 
Fair hill-flower and woodland child, 
Dear to me in deep green dells, 
Dearest on the mountains wild. 

Bluebell, even as all divine 
I have seen my darling shine; 
Bluebell, even as fair and frail 
I have seen my darling fail. 
Lift thy head and speak to me, 
Soothing thoughts are breathed by thee. 
Thus they whisper, "Summer's sun 
Lights me till my life is done; 
Would I rather choose to die 
Under winter's stormy sky? 

"Glad I bloom, and calm I fade, 
Dews of heaven are round me stayed;' 
Mourner, mourner, dry thy tears, 
Sorrow comes with lengthened years." 

lfa>' 7, 1839. 

' "Weeping twilights dew my head," is another reading. 



1 10 



/ Am the Only Being 



35 

1AM the only being ^ whose doom 
No tongue would ask, no eye would mourn ; 
I've never caused a thought of gloom, 
A smile of joy, since I was born. 

In secret pleasure, secret tears, 

Thi^ changeful life has slipped away, 

As friendless after eighteen 3^ears, 
As lone as on my natal day. 

There have been times, I cannot hide. 

There have been times when this was drear. 

When my sad soul forgot its pride 
And longed for one to love me here. 

But those were in the early glow 

Of feelings long subdued by care, 
And the}^ have died so long ago, 

I hardly now believe they were. 

First melted off the hope of youth. 
Then fancy's rainbow fast withdrew; 

And then experience told me truth 
In mortal bosoms never grew. 

^ Here, as elsewhere, Emily Bronte uses being as a mono- 
syllable. 



Ill 



Poems by Einzly Bronte 



'Twas grief enough to think mankind 
All hollow, servile, insincere; 

But worse to turn to my own mind. 
And find the same corruption there. 

May 17, 1839. 



112 



Claudia 



36 

Claudia 

I DID not sleep; 'twas noon of day; 
I saw the burning sunshine fall, 
The long grass bending where I lay, 
The blue sky brooding over all. 

I heard the mellow hum of bees. 
And singing birds and sighing trees. 

And far away in woody dell 
The music of the Sabbath bell. 

I did not dream remembrance still 
Clasped round my heart its fetters chill ; 
But I am sure the soul is free 

To leave its clay a little while, 
Or how, in exile's misery. 

Could I have seen my country smile? 

In English fields my limbs were laid. 
With English turf beneath my head ; 
My spirit wandered o'er that shore 
Where nought but it may wander more. 
8 113 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



Yet if the soul can thus return, 
I need not, and I will not mourn; 
And vainly did you drive me far 

With leagues of ocean stretched between; 
My mortal flesh you might debar. 

But not the eternal fire within. 

My monarch died, to rule for ever 
A heart that can forget him never. 
And dear to me, ay, doubly dear, 

Thought shut within the silent tomb. 
His name shall be for whoso bear 

This long-sustained and hopeless doom. 

And brighter in the hour of woe 

Than in the blaze of victory's pride, 

That glory-shedding star shall glow 

For which we fought and bled and died 

May 28, 1839. 



114 



The Busy Day Has Hurried By 



37 

THE busy day has hurried by, 
And hearts greet kindred hearts once 
more; 
And swift the evening hours should fly, 
But what turns every gleaming eye 
So often to the door? 

And then so quick away? — And why 

Does sudden silence chill the room? 
And laughter sink into a sigh, 
And merry words to whispers die, 
And gladness change to gloom? 

Oh, we are listening for a sound 

We know shall ne'er be heard again; 
Sweet voices in the halls resound, 
Fair forms, fond faces gather round, 
But all in vain, in vain. 

Their feet shall never waken more 
The echoes in these galleries wide, 

Nor dare the snow on mountain's brow. 

Nor skim the river's frozen flow. 
Nor wander down its side. 

« :i: * 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



They, they are gone! Not for a while, 

As golden suns at night decline, 
And e'en in death our grief beguile. 
Foretelling with a rose-red smile 
How bright the morn will shine. 

No ; these dark towers are lone and lorn ; 

This very crowd is vacancy; 
And we must watch and wait and mourn, 
And half look out for their return; 

And think their forms we see. 

And fancy music in our ear. 

Such as their lips could only pour, 
And think we feel their presence near, 
And start to find they are not here; 
And never shall be more! 

June 14, 1839. 



116 



Month After Month 



38 

MONTH after month, year after year, 
My harp has poured a dreary strain ; 
At length a livelier note shall cheer, 
And pleasure tune its chords again. 

What though the stars and fair moonlight 
Are quenched in morning dull and grey? 

They are but tokens of the night, 
And this, my soul, is day. 

June 18, 1839. 



117 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



39 



COME hither, child; who gifted thee 
With power to touch that string so well? 
How daredst thou wake thoughts in me, 
Thoughts that I would, but cannot quell! 

Nay, chide not, lady; long ago 
I heard those notes in Elbe Hall, 

And had I known they'd waken woe, 
I'd weep their music to recall. 

But thus it was one festal night. 
When I was hardly six years old, 

I stole away from crowds and light. 
And sought a chamber dark and cold. 

I had no one to love me there, 
I knew no comrade and no friend, 

And so I went to sorrow where 

Heaven, only heaven, could me defend. 

Loud blew the wind. 'Twas sad to stay 
From all that splendour round away. 
I imaged in the lonely room 
A thousand forms, a fearful gloom; 

Ii8 



Come Hither, Child 



And with my wet eyes raised on high, 
I prayed to God that I might die. 
Suddenly in the silence drear 
A sound of music reached my ear: 

And then a voice — I hear it yet — 
So full of soul, so deeply sweet; 
I thought that Gabriel's self had come 
To take me to my father's home. 

Three times it rose, that solemn strain. 
Then died away, nor came again; 
And still the words and still the tone 
Dwell in their might when all alone. 

July 19, 1839. 



119 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



40 



MILD the mist upon the hill, 
Telling not of storms to-morrow; 
No, the day has wept its fill, 
Spent its store of silent sorrow. 

Oh, Fm gone back to the days of youth, 

I am a child once more, 
And 'neath my father's sheltering roof, 

And near the old hall door, 

I watch this cloudy evening fall. 

After a day of rain ; 
Blue mists, sweet mists of summer pall 

The horizon's mountain chain. 

The damp stands in the long, green grass 

As thick as morning's tears; 
And dreamy scents of fragrance pass 

That breathe of other years. 

July 27, 1839. 



120 



How Long Will You Remain ? 



H 



41 

OW long will you remain? The midnight 
hour 

Has tolled its last stroke from the minster tower. 
Come^ come ; the fire is dead, the lamp burns low ; 
Your eyelids droop, a weight is on your brow; 
Your cold hands hardly hold the weary pen: 
Come; morn will give recovered strength again." 

"No; let me linger; leave me, let me be 

A little longer in this reverie: 

I'm happy now; and would you tear away 

My blissful thought that never comes with day ? 

A vision dear, though false, for well my mind 

Knows what a bitter waking waits behind." 

''Can there be pleasure in this shadowy room. 

With windows yawning on intenser gloom, 

And such a dreary wind so bleakly sweeping 

Round walls where only you are vigil keeping? 

Besides, your face has not a sign of joy. 

And more than tearful sorrow fills your eye. 

Look on those woods, look on that mountain 

lorn, 

And think how changed they'll be to-morrow 

morn: 

121 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



The doors of heaven expanding bright and blue; 
The leaves, the green grass, sprinkled with the 

dew; 
And white mists rising on the river's breast, 
And wild birds bursting from their songless nest, 
And your own children's merry voices chasing 
The phantom ghost that pleasure has been 

raising." 

"Ay, speak of these! but can you tell me why 
Day breathes such beauty over earth and sky, 
And waking sounds revive, restored again 
To hearts that all night long have throbbed with 

pain? 
Is it not that the sunshine and the wind 
Lure from itself the woeful woe-worn mind, 
And all the joyous music breathing by. 
And all the splendours of that cloudless sky, 
Re-give him shadowy gleams of infancy 
And draw his tired gaze from futurity?" 

August 12, 1839. 



122 



The Starry Night 



42 

THE starry night shall tidings bring ; 
Go out upon the breezy moor, 
Watch- for a bird with sable wing, 
And beak and talons dropping gore. 

Look not around, look not beneath, 

But mutely trace its airy way, 
Mark where it lights upon the heath; 

Then, wanderer, kneel thee down, and pray. 

What fortune may await thee there, 

I will not, and I dare not tell; 
But Heaven is moved by fervent prayer, 

And God is mercy — fare thee well! 

* * * 

It is not pride, it is not shame, 

That makes her leave the gorgeous hall; 

And though neglect her heart might tame, 
She mourns not for her sudden fall. 

'Tis true she stands among the crowd. 
An unmarked and an unloved child. 

While each young comrade, blithe and proud, 
Glides through the maze of pleasure wild. 

123 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



And all do homage to their will, 

And all seem glad their voice to hear; 

She heeds not that, but hardly still 
Her eye can hold the quivering tear. 

What made her weep, what made her glide 
Out to the park this dreary day. 

And cast her jewelled chains aside. 
And seek a rough and lonely way; 

And down beneath a cedar's shade, 

On the wet grass regardless lie, 
With nothing but its gloom}^ head 

Between her and the showering sky? 

I saw her stand in the gallery long. 
Watching those little children there, 

As they were playing^ the pillars 'mong. 
And bounding down the marble stair. 

August 13, 1839. 

''A monosyllable. Emil}'^ Bronte so pronounced, it is 
plain, words like being, doing, going. 



124 



There Was a Tmie 



43 

THERE was a time when my cheek burned 
To give such scornful words the lie, 
Ungoverned nature madly spurned 

The law that bade it not defy. 
Oh, in the days of ardent youth 
I would have given my life for truth. 

For truth, for right, for liberty, 

I would have gladly, freely died; 
And now I calmly bear, and see 

The vain man smile, the fool deride. 
Though not because my heart is tame, 
Though not for fear, though not for shame 1 

My soul still chokes at every tone 

Of selfish and self-clouded error; 
My breast still braves the world alone, 

Steeled as it ever was to terror. 
Only I know, howe'er I frown, 
The same world will go rolling on. 

October, 1839. 



125 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



44 

S07lg 

O BETWEEN distress and pleasure 
Fond affection cannot be! 
Wretched hearts in vain would treasure 
Friendship's joys when others flee. 

Well I know thine eye would never 
Smile, when mine grieved, willingly; 

Yet I know thine eye for ever 
Could not weep in sympathy. 

Let us part; the time is over 

When I thought and felt like thee; 

I will be an ocean rover, 
I will sail the desert sea. 

Isles there are beyond its billow, 
Lands where woe may wander free; 

And, beloved, thy midnight pillow 
Will be soft unwatched by me. 

Not on each returning morrow. 
When thy heart bounds ardently, 

Needst thou then dissemble sorrow, 
Marking my despondency. 

126 



Song 

Day by day some dreary token 
Will forsake thy meinor}^ 

Till at last, all old links broken, 
I shall be a dream to thee. 



October 15, 1839. 



127 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



45 



THAT wind, I used to hear it swelling 
With joy divinely deep; 
You might have seen my hot tears welling, 
But rapture made me weep. 

I used to love on winter nights 
To he, and dream alone 
Of all the rare and real delights 
My lonely years had known. 



And oh ! above the best of those 

That coming time should bear, 

Like heaven's own glorious stars they rose. 

Still beaming bright and fair. 

November 28, 1839. 



128 



Fve Been Wandering 



46 

I'VE been wandering in the greenwoods, 
And 'mid flowery, smiling plains; 
I've been listening to the dark floods, 
To the thrush's thrilling strains. 

I have gathered the pale primrose. 
And the purple violet sweet; 

I've been where the asphodel grows, 
And where lives the red deer fleet. 

I've been to the distant mountain, 

To the silver singing rill, 
By the crystal murm'ring fountain. 

And the shady, verdant hill. 

I've been where the poplar is springing 
From the fair enamelled ground, 

While the nightingale is singing j 
With a solemn, plaintive sound. 

December 14, 1839. 



129 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



47 

HEAVEN'S glory shone where he was laid 
In life's decline! 
I turned me from that young saint's bed 
To gaze on thine. 

It was a summer day that saw 

His spirit's flight; 
Thine parted in a time of awe, 

A winter's night. 



Upon her soothing breast 

She lulled her little child, 
A winter sunset in the west 

A heav'nly glory smiled. 
I gazed within thine earnest eyes 

And read the sorrow brooding there; 
I heard thy young breast torn with sighs, 

And envied such despair. 



Go to the grave in youth's bare woe! 
That dream was written long ago. 

December 19, 1839. 



130 



Never 



48 

Never 

NOT many years, but long enough to see 
No ten can deal such deadly misery 
As the dear friend untimely called away; 
And still the more beloved, the greater still 
Must be the aching void, the withering chill 
Of each dark night and dim beclouded day. 

December 23 [1839]. 



131 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



49 



THY sun is near meridian height, 
And my sun sinks in endless night; 
But if that night bring only sleep, 
Then I shall rest, while thou wilt weep. 

And say not that my early tomb 
Will give me to a darker doom; 
Shall these long agonizing years 
Be punished by eternal tears? 

No! that I feel can never be; 
A God of hate could hardly bear 
To watch through all eternity, 
His own creation's dread despair! 



The pangs that wring my mortal breast, 
Must claim from Justice lasting rest; 
Enough, that this departing breath 
Will pass in anguish worse than death. 



132 



Thy Sim Is Near Meridian 



Then come again; thou wilt not shrink- 
I know thy soul is free from fear — 

The last full cup of triumph drink, 
Before the blank of death be there. 



January 6, 1840. 



133 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



50 



HE smiles and sinj^s, though every air 
Betrays the faith of yesterday; 
His soul is glad to cast for her 

Virtue and faith and Heaven away. 

Well, thou hast paid me back my love! 
But, if there be a God above, 
Whose arm is strong, Whose word is true, 
This hell shall wring thy spirit too! 

January 6, 1840. 



134 



It Is Too Late 



51 



IT is too late to call thee now, 
I will not nurse that dream again; 
For every joy that lit my brow 

Would bring its after-storm of pain. 

Besides, the mist is half withdrawn, 
The barren mountain-side lies bare, 

And sunshine and awaking morn 
Paint no more golden visions there. 

Yet ever in my grateful breast 

Thy darling shade shall cherished be; 

For God alone doth know how blessed 
My early years have been in thee! 

April, 1840. 



135 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



52 



"HP IS moonlight, summer moonlight, 

1 All soft, and still, and fair; 
The silent time of midnight 
Shines sweetly everywhere. 

But most where trees are sending 
Their breezy boughs on high, 

Or stooping low are lending 
A shelter from the sky. 

And there in those wild bowers 

A lovely form is laid. 
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers 

Wave gently round her head. 

May 13, 1840. 



136 



If Grief for Grief Can Touch Thee 



53 

IF grief for grief can touch thee, 
If answering woe for woe, 
If any truth can melt thee. 
Come to me now! 

I cannot be more lonely, 

More drear I cannot be! 
My worn heart throbs so wildly 
'Twill break for thee. 

And when the world despises. 

When heaven repels my prayer. 
Will not mine angel comfort? 
Mine idol hear? 

Yes, by the tears I've poured thee, 

By all my hours of pain, 
O I shall surely win thee, 
Beloved, again. 
May 1 8, 1840. 



137 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



54 

COMPANIONS all day long we've stood, 
The wild winds restless blowing, — 
All day we've watched the darkened flood 
Around our vessel flowing. 

Sunshine has never smiled since morn, 
And clouds have gathered drear, 

And heavier hearts would feel forlorn, 
And weaker minds would fear. 

But look in each young shipmate's eyes 

Lit \^y the evening flame, 
And see how little stormy skies 

Our joyous blood can tame. 

No face the same expression wears. 

No lip the same soft smile; 
Yet kindness warms and courage cheers, 

Nerves every breast the while. 

It is the hour of dreaming now, 

The red fire brightly gleams. 
And sweetest in such fires' glow 

The hour of dreaming seems. 

138 



Companions All Day Long 



I may not trace my thoughts of all, 

But some I read as well 
As I can hear the ocean's fall 

And sullen surging swell. 

The swifter soul is gone before, 

It treads a forest wide, 
Where bowers are bending to the shore, 

And gazing on the fide. 

in if. if. 

September 17, 1840. 

[Note. — The six concluding verses are practically unde- 
cipherable in the MS.] 



139 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



55 
Retirement 

OLET me be alone awhile! 
No human form is nigh; 
And I may sing and muse aloud, 
No mortal ear is by. 

Away, ye dreams of earthly bliss, 

Ye earthly cares begone! 
Depart, ye restless, wandering thoughts, 

And let me be alone! 

One hour, my spirit, stretch thy wings 

And quit this joyless sod; 
Bask in the sunshine of the sky. 

And be alone with God! 

Sunday, December 13, 1840. 



140 



The Caged Bird 



56 
The Caged Bird 

AND like myself lone, wholly lone, 
It sees the day's long sunshine glow; 
And like myself it makes its moan 
In unexhausted woe. 

Give we the hills our equal prayer, 

Earth's breezy hills and heaven's blue sea; 

I ask for nothing further here 
But my own heart and liberty. 

• Ah! could my hand unlock its chain, 
How gladly would I with it soar; 
And ne'er regret, and ne'er complain 
To see its shining eyes no more. 

But let me think that if to-day 

It pines in cold captivity, 
To-morrow both shall soar away, 

Eternally, entirely free. 

Methinks this heart should rest awhile, 
So stilly round the evening falls ; 

'The veiled sun shows no parting smile. 
Nor mirth, nor music wakes my halls. 

141 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



I have sat lonel}^ all the day, 

Watching the drizzling mist descend, 

And first conceal the hills in grey, 
And then along the valleys wend. 

And I have sat and watched the trees. 

And the sad flowers, — how drear they blow! 

Those flowers were formed to feel the breeze. 
Wave their light heads in summer's glow. 

Yet their lives passed in gloomy woe. 
And hopeless comes its dark decline. 

And I lament, because I know 

That cold departure pictures mine. 

February 27, 1841. 



142 



/ See Around Me 



57 



I SEE around me piteous tombstones grey 
Stretching their shadows far away. 
Beneath the turf my footsteps tread 
Lie low and lone the silent dead, 
Beneath the turf, beneath the mould, 
For ever dark, for ever cold; 
And my eyes cannot hold the tears 
That memory hoards for vanished years. 
For time and death and mortal pain 
Give wounds that will not heal again. 
Let me remember half the woe 
I've seen and heard and felt below. 
And heaven itself, so pure and blest, 
Could never give my spirit rest. 
Sweet land of light ! Thy children fair 
Know nought akin to our despair; 
Nor have they felt, nor can they tell 
What tenants haunt each mortal cell, • 
What gloomy guests we hold within, 
Torments and madness, fear and sin! 
Well, may they live in ecstasy 
Their long eternity of joy! 
At least we would not bring them down 
With us to weep, with us to groan. 

143 



Poems by Emily Bronfe 



No! Earth would wish no other sphere 

To taste her cup of suffering drear; 

She turns from heaven a tearless eye, 

And only mourns that we must die! 

Ah mother, what shall comfort thee 

In all this boundless misery? 

To cheer our eager eyes awhile 

We see thee smile, how fondly smile! 

But who reads not through the tender glow 

Thy deep, unutterable woe? 

Indeed no darling land above 

Can cheat thee of thy children's love. 

We all in life's departing shine. 

Our last dear longings blend with thine, 

And struggle still and strive to trace 

With clouded gaze thy darling face. 

We would not leave our native home 

For any world beyond the tomb. 

No, mother, on thy kindly breast 

Let us be laid in lasting rest. 

Or waken but to share with thee 

A mutual immortality. 

July^ 1 84 1. 



144 



Geraldine 

58 

Geraldine 

» ^ I ^ WAS night ; her comrades gathered all 

1 Within their city's rocky wall ; 
When flowers were closed, and day was o'er, 
Their joyous hearts awoke the more. 

But lonely in her distant cave 
She heard the river's restless wave 
Chafing its banks with dreamy flow, 
Music for mirth and wail for woe. 

4c 4i 4: 

Yet I could hear my lady sing; 

I knew she did not mourn; 
For never yet from sorrow's spring 

Such witching notes were born. 

if. ifi ili 

The dwellers in the city slept, 

My lady in her woodland bed ; 
I watching o'er her slumber wept, 

As one who mourns the dead. 

August 17, 1841. 

xo 145 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



59 

WHAT winter floods, what streams of spring 
Have drenched the grass by night and 
day, 
And yet beneath that speeding ring 
Unmoved and undiscovered lay 

The mute remembrancer of crime, 
Long lost, concealed, forgot for years, 

It comes at last to cancel time. 
And waken unavailing tears. 

March 27, 1842. 



146 



O Innocence, That Cannot Live 



60 



* * 



OIKNOCENCE, that cannot live 
With heart-wrung anguish long, 
Dear childhood's innocence, forgive, 
For I have done thee wron^f! 



"^fe 



The bright rosebuds, those hawthorn shrouds 

Within their perfumed bower, 
Have never closed beneath a cloud, 

Nor bent beneath a shower. 

Had darkness once obscured their sun, 

Or kind dew turned to rain, 
No storm-cleared sky that ever shone 

Could win such bliss again. 

May 17, 1842. 



147 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



6i 

Death 

DEATH ! that struck when I was most confid- 
ing 
In my certain faith of joy to be — 
Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing 
From the fresh root of Eternity ! 

Leaves upon Time's branch were growing 
brightly, 

Full of sap, and full of silver dew; 
Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly; 

Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew. 



Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom; 

Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride; 
But, within its parent's kindly bosom, 

Flowed for ever Life's restoring tide. 

Little mourned I for the parted gladness, 
For the vacant nest and silent song — 

Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness; 
Whispering, "Winter will not linger long!" 

148 



Death 

And, behold! with tenfold increase blessing, 
Spring adorned the beauty-burdened spray; 

Wind and rain and fervent heat, caressing, 
Lavished glory on that second May! 



Cruel Death! The young leaves droop and 
• languish ; 

Evening's gentle air may still restore — 
No ! the morning sunshine mocks my anguish — 

Time, for me, must never blossom more! 

Strike it down, that other boughs may flourish 
Where that perished sapling used to be; 

Thus, at least, its mouldering corpse will nourish 
That from which it sprung — Eternity. 

1843. 



149 



Poems by Emily Eronte 



62 



Grave in the Ocean 
* * * 

WHERE can the weary lay his head, 
And lay it safe the while; 
In a grave that never shuts its dead 
From heaven's benignant smile? 



But if to weep above her grave 

Be such a priceless boon, 
Go, shed thy tears in Ocean's wave 

And they will reach it soon. 

3|C 3^ 5fC 

With thy mind's vision pierce the deep, 

Look how she rests below, 
And tell me why such blessed sleep 

Should cause such bitter woe? 

May I, 1843. 



150 



/ Gazed Upon the Cloudless Moon 



63 



I GAZED upon the cloudless moon 
And loved her all the night, 
Till morning came and radiant noon, 
And I forgot her light. 

No, not forgot eternally 
Beneath its mighty glare: 

But could the day seem dark to me 
Because the night was fair? 

Jvly 26, 1843. 



151 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



64 



I KNOW our souls are all divine, 
I know that when we die 
What seems the vilest, even like thine, 
A part of God himself shall shine 
In perfect purity. 



But coldly breaks November's day; 

Its changes, charmless all, 
Unmarked, unloved, they pass away: 
We do not wish one hour to stay, 

Nor sigh at evening's fall. 



And glorious is the gladsome rise 

Of June's rejoicing morn; 
And who with unregretful eyes 
Can watch the lustre leave its skies 
To twilight's shade forlorn? 



152 



/ Know Our Soitls Are All Divine 



could it thus for ever be, 

That I might so adore ; 
I'd ask for all eternity, 
To make a paradise for me, 
My love — and nothing more. 



July 28, 1843. 



153 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



65 

TWAS yesterday at early dawn 
I watched the falHng snow; 
A drearier scene on winter morn 
Was never stretched below. 

I could not see the mountains round, 
But I knew by the wind's wild roar, 

How every drift in their glens profound 
Was deepening ever more. 

And then I thought of Elbe's bowers, 

Beyond the southern sea, 
Her tropic prairies bright with flowers, 

And rivers wandering free. 
* * * 

Who, that has breathed that heavenly air. 
To northern climes would come, 

To Gondal's mists and moorlands drear, 
And sleet and frozen gloom? 

Spring brings the swallow and the lark, 

But what will winter bring? 
Its twilight hours and evenings dark 
To match the gift of spring? 
* * * 

154 



' Twas Yesterday at Early Dawn 



Oh ! how the hearts of voyagers beat 

To feel the frost-wind blow! 
What flower in Elbe's garden sweet 

Is worth one flake of snow? 

The blast which almost rends their sail 

Is welcome as a friend ; 
It brings them home, that thundering gale, 

Home to their journey's end. 

ifi ^ •)(. 

December 19, 1843. 



155 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



66 

At Castle Wood 

THE day is done, the winter sun 
Is setting in its sullen sky, 
And drear the course that has been run, 
And dim the hearts that slowly die. 

No star will light my coming night, 
No morn of hope for me will shine; 

I mourn not Heaven would blast my sight, 
And I ne'er longed for joys divine. 

Through life's hard task I did not ask 

Celestial aid, celestial cheer; 
I saw my fate without its mask, 

And met it too without a tear. 

The grief that prest my aching breast 
Was heavier far than earth can be; 

And who would dread eternal rest 
When labour's hour was agony? 

Dark falls the fear of this despair 

On spirits born of happiness; 
But I was bred the mate of care. 

The foster child of sore distress. 

156 



At Castle Wood 

No sighs for me, no sympathy, 
No wish to keep my soul below; 

The heart is dead in infancy, 
Unwept-for let the body go. 

February 2, 1844. 



157 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



67 



THIS summer wind with thee and me 
Roams in the dawn of day; 
But thou must be, where it shall be 
Ere evening — far away. 

The farewell's echo from thy soul 

Should not depart before 
Hills rise and distant rivers roll 

Between us evermore. 

I know that I have done thee wrong, 
Have wronged both thee and Heaven; 

And I may mourn my lifetime long, 
Yet may not be forgiven. 

Repentant tears will vainly fall 

To cover deeds untrue, 
But for no grief can I recall 

The dreary word — Adieu! 

Yet thou a future peace shalt win, 

Because thy soul is clear; 
And I who had the heart to sin 

Will find a heart to bear. 

158 



This Summer Wmd with Thee 



Till far beyond earth's frenzied strife, 
That makes destruction joy, 

Thy perished faith shall spring to life, 
And my remorse shall die. 

March 2, 1844. 



159 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



68 
A Day Dream 

ON a sunny brae alone I lay 
One summer afternoon; 
It was the marriage-time of May, 
With her young lover, June. 

A thousand thousand gleaming fires 

Seemed kindling in the air ; 
A thousand thousand silvery lyres 

Resounded far and near: 

Methought the very breath I breathed 

Was full of sparks divine, 
And all my heather-couch was wreathed 

By that celestial shine! 

And, while the wide earth echoing rung 

To that strange minstrelsy, 
The little glittering spirits sung, 

Or seemed to sing, to me. 

i6o 



A Day Dream 

' ' mortal ! mortal ! let them die ; 

Let time and tears destroy, 
That we may overflow the sky 

With universal joy! 

"Let grief distract the sufferer's breast, 

And night obscure his way ; 
They hasten him to endless rest, 

And everlasting da}". 

"To thee the world is like a tomb, 

A desert's naked shore; 
To us, in unimagined bloom, 

It brightens more and more! 

"And, could we lift the veil, and give 
One brief glimpse to thine eye, 

Thou wouldst rejoice for those that live. 
Because they live to die." 

* « 4: 

March 5, 1844. 



II 



161 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



69 

Remembrance 

COLD in the earth — and the deep snow piled 
above thee, 
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave ! 
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee. 
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave? 

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer 

hover 
Over the mountains, on that northern shore, 
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves 

cover 
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more? 

Cold in the earth — and fifteen wild Decembers, 
From those brown hills, have melted into spring: 
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers 
After such years of change and suffering! 

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, 
While the world's tide is bearing me along; 
Other desires and other hopes beset me, 
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong! 

162 



Remembrance 

No later light has lightened up my heaven, 
No second moon has ever shone for me ; 
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, 
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. 

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, 
And ev'n Despair was powerless to destroy; 
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, 
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy. 

Then did I check the tears of useless passion — 
Weaned my young soul from yearning after 

thine ; 
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten 
Down to that tomb already more than mine. 

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish. 
Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; 
Once drinking deep of that divinest^ anguish, 
How could I seek the empty world again? 

March 3, 1845. 

^ In the original draft the word is "delighted," after- 
wards corrected to "divinest." 

The MS. version of this poem, in the autograph of Emily 
Bronte, differs slightly from the printed text, which was 
revised by Emily Bronte for publication in 1846. 



163 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



70 

A THOUSAND sounds of happiness 
And only one of real distress, 
One hardly uttered groan; 
But that has crushed all vocal joy, 
Eclipsed the glory of the sky, 
And made me think that misery 
Rules in our world alone ! 

About his face the sunshine glows, 
And in his hair the south wind blows. 
And violet and wild woodrose 

Are sweetly breathing near; 
Nothing without suggests dismay. 
If he could force his mind away 
From tracking farther day by day. 

The desert of despair. 

Too truly agonized to weep, 

His eyes are motionless as sleep ; 

His frequent sighs, long-drawn and deep, 

Are anguish to my ear. 
And I would soothe — but can I call 
The cold corpse from its funeral pall. 
And cause a gleam of hope to fall 

With my consoling tear? 

164 



A Thousand Sotmds of Happiness 



O Death! So many spirits driven 
Through this false world, their all had given 
To win the everlasting haven 

To sufferers so divine: 
Why didst thou smite the loved, the blest, 
The ardent and the happy breast. 
That full of hope desired not rest. 

And shrank appalled from thine? 

At least, since thou wilt not restore. 
In mercy launch one arrow more ; 
Life's conscious death it wearies sore. 

It tortures worse than thee. 
Enough if storms have bowed his head, 
Grant him at last a quiet bed 
Beside his early stricken dead; 

Even where he yearns to be! 

April 22, 1845. 



165 



Poems by Einily Bronte 



71 

The Philosopher 

ENOUGH of thought, philosopher! 
Too long hast thou been dreaming 
Unlightened, in this chamber drear, 

While summer's sun is beaming! 
Space-sweeping soul, what sad refrain 
Concludes thy musing once again? 

"Oh, for the time when I shall sleep 

Without identity. 
And never care how rain may steep, 

Or snow may cover me ! 
(,.| No promised heaven, these wild desires 

Could all, or half fulfil; 
No threatened hell, with quenchless fires, 

Subdue this quenchless will!" 

"So said I, and still say the same; 

Still, to my death, will say — 
Three gods, within this little frame, 

Are warring night and day; 

166 



■1 



The Philosopher 

Heaven could not hold them all, and yet 

They all are held in me; 
And must be mine till I forget 

My present entity! 
Oh, for the time, when in my breast 

Their struggles will be o'er! 
Oh, for the day, when I shall rest. 

Arid never suffer more!" 

"I saw a spirit standing, man. 

Where thou dost stand — an hour ago. 
And round his feet three rivers ran, 

Of equal depth, and equal flow — 
A golden stream — and one like blood. 

And one like sapphire seemed to be; 
But, where they joined their triple flood, 

It tumbled in an inky sea. 
The spirit sent his dazzling gaze 

Down through that ocean's gloomy night ; 
Then, kindling all, with sudden blaze. 

The glad deep sparkled wide and bright — 
White as the sun, far, far more fair 
Than its divided sources were!" 

"And even for that spirit, seer, 

I've watched and sought my lifetime long; 
Sought him in heaven, hell, earth, and air. 

An endless search, and always wrong. 

167 



Poems by Emily Bro^de 



Had I but seen his glorious eye 

Once light the clouds that 'wilder me, 
I ne'er had raised this coward cry 

To cease to think, and cease to be; 
I ne'er had called oblivion blest, 

Nor stretching eager hands to death, 
Implored to change for senseless rest 

This sentient soul, this living breath. 
Oh, let me die — that power and will 

Their cruel strife may close; 
And conquered good and conquering ill 

Be lost in one repose!" 

October, 1845. 



168 



Tell Me, Tell Me, Smiling Child 



72 

TELL me, tell me, smiling child, 
What the past is like to thee? 
An Autumn evening, soft and mild, 
With a wind that sighs mournfully? 

Tell me what is the present hour? 

A green and flowery spray, 
Where a young bird sits gathering its power 

To mount and fly away? 

And what is the future, happy one? 
A sea beneath a cloudless sun; 
A mighty, glorious, dazzling sea, 
Stretching into infinity? 



169 



Poems by Emily ±>ronie 



73 



COME walk with me; there's only thee, 
To bless my spirit now. 
Wc used to love on winter nights 

To wander through the snow. 
Can we not woo back old delights? 

The clouds rush dark and wild; 
They fleck with shade our mountain bright 

The same as long ago, 
And on the horizon rest at last 

In looming masses piled ; 
While moonbeams flash and fly so fast 

We scarce can say they smiled. 



Come walk with me, come walk with me, 

We were not once so few; 
But death has stol'n our company. 

As sunshine steals the dew. 
He took them one by one, and we 

Are left, the only two; 
So closer would m}^ feelings twine 
Because they have no stay but thine. 

170 



Come IValk with Me 



"Nay, call not me; it may not be; 

Is human love so true? 
Can friendship's flower droop on for years, 

And then revive anew? 
No; though the soil be wet with tears, 

How fair soe'er it grew; 
The vital sap once perished 

Will never flow again. 
And surer than that dwelling dread, 
The narrow dungeon of the dead, 

Time parts the hearts of men." 



171 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



74 

IT was night, and on the mountains 
Fathoms deep the snowdrifts lay; 
Streams and waterfalls and fountains 
Down the darkness stole away. 

Long ago the hopeless peasant 
Left his sheep all buried there, 

Sheep that through the summer pleasant 
He had watched with tend'rest care. 

Now no more a cheerful ranger. 
Following pathways known of yore, 

Sad he stood, a wild-eyed stranger. 
On his own unbounded moor. 



172 



A Fresh IVind Waves 



75 

4c 4: % 

AFRESH wind waves the clustering roses, 
And through the open window sighs 
Around the couch where she reposes, 
The lady with the dovelike eyes; 

With dovelike eyes and shining hair, 
And velvet cheek so sweetly moulded; 

And hands so white and soft and fair 
Above her snowy bosom folded. 

4c 4: 9|: 

Her sister's and her brother's feet 
Are brushing off the scented dew, 

And she springs up in haste to greet 
The grass and flowers and sunshine too. 



173 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



76 

SHALL earth no more inspire thee, 
Thou lonely dreamer now? 
Since passion may not fire thee, 
Shall nature cease to bow? 

Thy mind is ever moving, 

In regions dark to thee; 
Recall its useless roving. 

Come back, and dwell with me. 

I know my mountain breezes 
Enchant and soothe thee still, 

I know my sunshine pleases. 
Despite thy wayward will. 

When day with evening blending, 
Sinks from the summer sky, 

I've seen thy spirit bending 
In fond idolatry. 

I've watched thee every hour; 

I know my mighty sway : 
I know my magic power 

To drive thy griefs away. 

174 



Shall Earth No More Inspire Thee ? 



Few hearts to mortals given, 

On earth so wildly pine; 
Yet few would ask a heaven 

More like this earth than thine. 

Then let my winds caress thee; 

Thy comrade let me be: 
^Since nought beside can bless thee, 
Return — and dwell with me. 

[Note by Charlotte Bronte, prefixed to this poem in the 
edition of 1850: 

"The following little piece has no title; but in it the 
Genius of a solitary region seems to address his wandering 
and wayward votary, and to recall within his influence the 
proud mind which rebelled at times even against what it 
most loved."] 



175 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



77 

YES, holy be thy resting-place 
Wherever thou mayst lie; 
The sweetest winds breathe on thy face 
The softest of the sky. 

And will not guardian angels send 
Kind dreams and thoughts of love, 

Though I no more may watchful bend 
Thy loved repose above? 

And will not heaven itself bestow 

A beam of glory there, 
That simimer's grass more green may grow. 

And summer's flowers more fair? 

Farewell, farewell; 'tis hard to part. 

Yet, loved one, it must be: 
I would not rend another heart, 

Not even with blessing thee. 

Go ! we must break affection's chain, 

Forget the hopes of years : 
Nay, grieve not — wouldest thou remain 

To waken wilder tears? 



176 



Last IVords 



78 
Last Words 

I KNEW not 'twas so dire a crime 
To say the word, "Adieu"; 
But this shall be the only time 
My lips or heart shall sue. 

The wild hillside, the winter morn, 
The gnarled and ancient tree, 

If in your breast they waken scorn. 
Shall wake the same in me. 

I can forget black eyes and brows, 

And lips of falsest charm. 
If you forget the sacred vows 

Those faithless lips could form. 

If hard commands can tame your love, 

Or strongest walls can hold, 
I would not wish to grieve above 

A thing so false and cold. 

And there are bosoms bound to mine 
With links both tried and strong; 

And there are eyes whose lightning shine 
Has warmed and blest me long: 

177 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



Those eyes shall make my only day, 

Shall set my spirit free, 
And chase the foolish thoughts away 

That mourn your memory. 



178 



The Lady to Her Gtiitar 



79 

The Lady to Her Guitar 

FOR him who struck thy foreign string, 
I ween this heart has ceased to care: 
Then why dost thou such feeHngs bring 
To my sad spirit — old Guitar? 

It is as if the warm sunlight 

In some deep glen should lingering stay, 
When clouds of storm, or shades of night, 

Have wrapt the parent orb away. 

It is as if the glassy brook 

Should image still its willows fair, 

Though years ago the woodman's stroke 
Laid low in dust their Dryad-hair. 

Even so. Guitar, thy magic tone 

Hath moved the tear and waked the sigh; 
Hath bid the ancient torrent moan 

Although its very source is dry. 



179 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



80 

The Outcast Mother 

I'VE seen this dell in July's shine, 
As lovely as an angel's dream; 
Above, Heaven's depth of blue divine, 
Around, the evening's golden beam. 

I've seen the purple heather-bell 

Look out by many a storm- worn stone; 

And, oh! I've known such music swell, 
Such wild notes wake these passes lone. 

So soft, yet so intensely felt; 

So low, yet so distinctly heard; 
My breath would pause, my eyes would melt, 

And tears would dew the green heath-sward. 

I'd linger here a summer day, 

Nor care how fast the hours flew by, 

Nor mark the sun's departing ray 
Smile sadly from the dark'ning sky. 

Then, then, I might have laid me down, 
And dreamed my sleep would gentle be; 

I might have left thee, darling one. 

And thought thy God was guarding thee ! 

180 



The Outcast Mother 



But now there is no wand'ring glow, 
No gleam to say that God is nigh ; 

And coldly spreads the couch of snow, 
And harshly sounds thy lullaby. 

Forests of heather, dark and long, 

Wave their brown branching arms above; 

And they must soothe thee with their song, 
And they must shield my child of love. 

Alas ! the flakes are heavily falling, 
They cover fast each guardian crest ; 

And chilly white their shroud is palling 
Thy frozen limbs and freezing breast. 

Wakes up the storm more madly wild, 
The mountain drifts are tossed on high ; 

Farewell, unbless'd, unfriended child, 
I cannot bear to watch thee die! 



i8i 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



8i 
The Wanderer from the Fold 

HOW few, of all the hearts that loved, 
Are grieving for thee now; 
And why should mine to-night be moved 
With such a sense of woe? 

Too often thus, when left alone, 
Where none my thoughts can see, 

Comes back a word, a passing tone 
From thy strange history. 

Sometimes I seem to see thee rise, 

A glorious child again; 
All virtues beaming from thine eyes 

That ever honoured men : 

Courage and truth, a generous breast 

Where sinless sunshine lay: 
A being whose very presence blest 

Like gladsome summer day. 

O, fairly spread thy early sail; 

And fresh, and pure, and free, 
Was the first impulse of the gale 

Which urged life's wave for thee! 

182 



The IVanderer from the Fold 



Why did the pilot, too confiding, 

Dream o'er that ocean's foam, 
And trust in Pleasure's careless guiding 

To bring his vessel home? 

For well he knew what dangers frowned. 

What mists would gather dim; 
What rocks and shelves and sands lay round 

"Between his port and him. 

The very brightness of the sun, 

The splendour of the main. 
The wind which bore him wildly on 

Should not have warned in vain. 

An anxious gazer from the shore — 

I marked the whitening wave, 
And wept above thy fate the more 

Because I could not save. 

It recks not now, when all is over: 

But yet my heart will be 
A mourner still, though friend and lover 

Have both forgotten thee! 



183 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



82 

Warning and Reply 

IN the earth, the earth, thou shalt be laid, 
A grey stone standing over thee; 
Black mould beneath thee spread, 
And black mould to cover thee. 

"Well, there is rest there. 

So fast come thy prophecy; 
The time when my sunny hair 

Shall with grass roots entwined be." 

But cold, cold is that resting-place, 

Shut out from joy and liberty, 
And all who loved thy living face 

Will shrink from it shudderingly. 

"Not so! Here the world is chill. 
And sworn friends fall from me: 

But there — they will own me still, 
And prize my memory.' 



»> 



Farewell, then, all that love, 
All that deep sympathy: 

Sleep on; Heaven laughs above. 
Earth never misses thee. 

184 



Warning and Reply 



Turf-sod and tombstone drear 

Part human company; 
One heart breaks only — here, 

But that heart was worthy thee! 



185 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



83 

Encouragement 

1D0 not weep; I would not weep; 
Our mother needs no tears: 
Dry thine eyes, too; 'tis vain to keep 
This causeless grief for years. 

What though her brow be changed and cold, 

Her sweet eyes closed for ever? 
What though the stone, the darksome mould, 

Our mortal bodies sever? 

What though her hand smooth ne'er again 

Those silken locks of thine? 
Nor, through long hours of future pain, 

Her kind face o'er thee shine? 

Remember still, she is not dead; 

She sees us, sister, now; 
Laid, where her angel spirit fled, 

'Mid heath and frozen snow. 

And from that world of heavenly light 

Will she not always bend 
To guide us in our lifetime's night, 

And guard us to the end? 

186 



Encouragement 

Thou know*st she will ; and thou mayst mourn 

That we are left below: 
But not that she can ne'er return 

To share owi earthly woe. 



187 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



84 

Song 

THE linnet in the rocky dells, 
The moor-lark in the air, 
The bee among the heather bells 
That hide my lady fair: 

The wild deer browse above her breast ; 

The wild birds raise their brood; 
And they, her smiles of love caressed, 

Have left her solitude! 

I ween, that when the grave's dark wall 

Did first her form retain. 
They thought their hearts could ne'er recall 

The light of joy again. 

They thought the tide of grief would flow 
Unchecked through future years; 

But where is all their anguish now. 
And where are all their tears? 

Well, let them fight for honour's breath, 

Or pleasure's shade pursue — 
The dweller in the land of death 

Is changed and careless too. 

188 



Song 

And, if their eyes should watch and weep 
Till sorrow's source were dry, 

She would not, in her tranquil sleep, 
Return a single sigh! 

Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound. 

And murmur, summer-streams — 
There is no need of other sound 
'To soothe my lady's dreams. 



189 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



85 
A Death-Scene 

DAY! he cannot die 
When thou so fair art shining! 
O Sun, in such a glorious sky, 
So tranquilly declining; 



o 



<( 



He cannot leave thee now. 
While fresh west winds are blowing, 
And all around his youthful brow 
Thy cheerful light is glowing! 

"Edward, awake, awake — 
The golden evening gleams 
Warm and bright on Arden's lake — 
Arouse thee from thy dreams! 

"Beside thee, on my knee, 
My dearest friend, I pray 
That thou, to cross the eternal sea, 
Wouldst yet one hour delay: 

"I hear its billows roar — 
I see them foaming high ; 
But no glimpse of a further shore 
Has blest my straining eye. 

190 



A Death-Scene 

"Believe not what they urge 
Of Eden isles beyond ; 
Turn back, from that tempestuous surge, 
To thine own native land. 

"It is not death, but pain 
That struggles in thy breast — 
Nay, rally, Edward, rouse again; 
I cannot let thee rest!" 

4i * ♦ 



191 



Poeins by Emily Bronte 



86 



Faith and Despondency 

'"T^HE winter wind is loud and wild, 
1 Come close to me, my darling child; 
Forsake thy books, and mateless play; 
And, while the night is gathering grey, 
We'll talk its pensive hours away; — 



II 



lerne, round our sheltered hall 
November's gusts unheeded call; 
Not one faint breath can enter here 
Enough to wave my daughter's hair, 
And I am glad to watch the blaze 
Glance from her eyes, with mimic rays, 
To feel her cheek, so softly pressed, 
In happy quiet on my breast. 



"But yet even this tranquillity 
Brings bitter, restless thoughts to me; 
And, in the red fire's cheerful glow, 
I think of deep glens, blocked with snow; 

192 



Faith and Despondency 



I dream of moor, and misty hill, 
Where evening closes dark and chill ; 
For lone among the mountains cold, 
Lie those that I have loved of old. 
And my heart aches, in hopeless pain, 
Exhausted with repinings vain, 
That I shall greet them ne'er again!" 

"Father, in early infancy. 
When you were far beyond the sea, 
Such thoughts were tyrants over me! 
I often sat, for hours together, 
Through the long nights of angry weather, 
Raised on my pillow, to descry 
The dim moon struggling in the sky ; 
Or, with strained ear, to catch the shock 
Of rock with wave, and wave with rock; 
So would I fearful vigil keep, 
And, all for listening, never sleep. 
But this world's life has much to dread; 
Not so, my father, with the dead." 



X3 193 



Poems by Emily Bronie 



87 
Honour' s Martyr 

THE moon is full this winter night; 
The stars are clear though few; 
And every window glistens bright 
With leaves of frozen dew. 

The sweet moon through your lattice gleams, 

And lights your room like day; 
And there you pass, in happy dreams, 

The peaceful hours away! 

if. if. -^ 

The old clock in the gloomy hall 

Ticks on, from hour to hour; 
And every time its measured call 

Seems lingering slow and slower: 

And, oh, how slow that keen-eyed star 

Has tracked the chilly grey! 
What, watching yet! how very far 

The morning lies away! 

Without your chamber door I stand; 

Love, are you slumbering still? 
My cold heart, underneath my hand, 

Has almost ceased to thrill. 

194 



Honour s Ma^^fy?^ 

Bleak, bleak the east wind sobs and sighs, 

And drowns the turret bell. 
Whose sad note, undistinguished, dies 

Unheard, like my farewell! 



Oh, I would give my heart to death, 
• To keep my honour fair; 
Yet, I'll not give my inward faith 
My honour's name to spare! 



So foes pursue, and cold allies 
Mistrust me, every one: 

Let me be false in other's eyes, 
If faithful in my own. 



195 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



88 

HEAVY hangs the rain-drop 
From the burdened spray; 
Heavy broods the damp mist 
On uplands far away. 

Heavy looms the dull sky, 

Heavy rolls the sea; 
And heavy throbs the young heart 

Beneath that lonely tree. 

Never has a blue streak 

Cleft the clouds since morn; 

Never has his grim fate 
Smiled since he was born. 

Frowning on the infant, 
Shadowing childhood's joy, 

Guardian-angel knows not 
That melancholy boy. 

Day is passing swiftly 

Its sad and sombre prime; 

Boyhood sad is merging 
In sadder manhood's time: 
196 



Heavy Hangs the Rain -Drop 

All the flowers are praying 
For sun, before they close, 

And he prays too, unconscious, 
That sunless human rose. 

Blossom, that the west-wind 
Has never wooed to blow, 

Scentless are thy petals, 
Thy dew is cold as snow! 

Soul, where kindred kindness, 
No early promise woke. 

Barren is thy beauty. 
As weed upon a rock. 

Wither, soul and blossom! 

You both were vainly given: 
Earth reserves no blessing 

For the unblest of heaven ! 



197 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



89" 

CHILD of deli^^ht, with sun-bright hair, 
And sea-blue, sea-deep eyes! 
Spirit of bliss! what brings thee here, 
Beneath these sullen skies? 

Thou shouldst live in eternal spring. 
Where endless day is never dim; 

Wh}^ Seraph, has thine erring wing 
Wafted thee down to weep with him? 



198 




The Signal Light 



90 

The Signal Light^ 

I. THE VISIONARY 

SILENT is the house: all are laid asleep: 
One alone looks out o'er the snow-wreaths 
deep, 
Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze 
That whirls the 'wildering drift, and bends the 
groaning trees. 

Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor; 
Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or 

door; 
The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot 

strong and far: 
I trim it well, to be the wanderer's guiding-star. 

Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame; 
Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame! 
But neither sire nor dame, nor prying serf shall 

know 
What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen 

snow. 

» "The Signal Light" was Emily Bronte's original title. 

199 



Poe7ns by Emily Bronte 



What I love shall come like visitant of air, 
Safe in secret power from lurking human snare; 
What loves me, no word of mine shall e*er betray, 
Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit 
pay. 

Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and 

clear — 
Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air: 
He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me; 
Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou 

my constancy ! 



200 



The Signal Light 



91 

The Signal Light 

2. THE PRISONER 

IN the dungeon-crypts idly did I stray, 
Reckless of the lives wasting there away ; 
" Draw the ponderous bars ! open, Warder stern ! " 
He dared not say me nay — the hinges harshly 
turn. 

"Our guests are darkly lodged," I whisper'd, 

gazing through 
The vault, whose grated eye showed heaven 

more grey than blue; — 
This was when glad Spring laughed in awakening 

pride ; — 
Ay, darkly lodged enough ! " returned my sullen 

guide. 



The captive raised her face; it was as soft and 

mild 
As sculptured marble saint, or slumbering un- 

wean'd child; 

201 ^ 



<( 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



It was so soft and mild, it was so sweet and fair, 
Pain could not trace a line, nor grief a shadow 
there ! 

The captive raised her hand and pressed it to 

her brow; 
"I have been struck," she said, "and I am 

suffering now; 
Yet these are little worth, your bolts and irons 

strong ; 
And, were they forged in steel, they could not 

hold me long. 



<( 



Still let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to 
wear 
Year after year in gloom and desolate despair; 
A messenger of Hope comes every night to me, 
And offers for short life, eternal liberty. 



it. 



He comes with western winds, with evening's 

wandering airs. 
With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the 

thickest stars. 
Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender 

fire. 
And visions rise, and change, that kill me with 

desire. 

202 



The Signal Light 



*' Desire for nothing known in my maturer j^ears, 
When joy grew mad with awe, at counting future 

tears. 

When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm, 
( I knew not whence they came, from sun or 

thunderstorm. 

"But, -first, a hush of peace — a soundless calm 
' descends ; 

The struggle of distress and fierce impatience 

ends ; 
Mute music soothes my breast — unuttered 

harmony, 
That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to 

me. 

"Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth 

reveals ; 
My outward sense is gone, my inward essence 

feels : 
, Its wings are almost free — its home, its harbour 

found. 
Measuring the gulf, it stoops and dares the final 

bound. 

"Oh! dreadful is the check, intense the agony. 
When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins 
to see; 

203 



Poems by Emily Brojife 



When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to 

think again ; 
The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the 

chain. 



" Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture 

less; 
The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will 

bless ; ■ 

And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly. 

shine, 
If it but herald death, the vision is divine!" 




She ceased to speak, and we, unanswering, turned 

to go— #1 

We had no further power to work the captive 

woe: 
Her cheek, her gleaming eye, declared that man 

had given 
A sentence, unapproved, and overruled by 

Heaven. 

*Then like a tender child whose hand did just 

enfold 
Safe in its eager grasp a bird it wept to hold, 
When pierced with one wild glance from the 

troubled hazel eye. 
It gushes into tears and lets its treasure fly. 

204 



The Signal Light 



*Thus ruth and selfish love, together striving, 

tore 
The heart all newly taught to pity and adore; 
If I should break the chain, I felt my bird would 

go; 
Yet I must break the chain, or seal the prisoner's 

woe. 



205 



Poems by Emily Bronle 



92* 



« 



IT was the autumn of the year ; 
The time to labouring peasants dear: 
Week after week, from noon to noon, 
September shone as bright as June; 
Still, never hand a sickle held; 
The crops were garnered in the field, 
Trod out, and ground by horses' feet, 
While every ear was milky sweet; 
And kneaded on the threshing floor 
With mire of tears and human gore. 
Some said they thought that heaven's pure rain 
Would hardly bless those fields again. 
Not so — the all-benignant skies 
Rebuked that fear of famished eyes — 
July passed on with showers and dew, 
And August glowed in showerless blue; 
No harvest time could be more fair 
Had harvest fruits but ripened there. 

* * * 

Strange proofs I've seen, how hearts could hide 
Their secret with a life-long pride, 
And then reveal it as they died. 

206 



It PFas the Atttmnn of the Year 



Strange courage, and strange weakness too, 
In that last hour when most are true, 
And timid natures strangely nerved 
To deeds from which the desperate swerved ! 
These I may tell, but leave them now. 
Go with me where my thoughts would go; 
Now all to-day, and all last night 
I've had one scene before my sight — 

Wood-shadowed dales ; a harvest moon 

Unclouded in its glorious noon; 

A solemn landscape, wide and still, 

A red fire on a distant hill ; 

A line of fire, and deep below, 

Another dusker, drearier glow; 

Charred beams, and lime, and blackened stones 

Self-piled in cairns o'er burning bones; 

And lurid flames that licked the wood, 

Then quenched their glare in pools of blood. 

September 14, 1846. 



207 



Poems by Emily Broiite 



93* 



WHY ask to know what date, what clime? 
There dwelt our own humanity, 
Power-worshippers from earliest time, 
Feet-kissers of triumphant crime, 

Crushers of helpless misery. 
Crushing down Justice, honouring wrong, 
If that be feeble, this be strong. 

Shedders of blood, shedders of tears, 

Fell creatures avid of distress ; 
Yet mocking heaven with senseless prayers 

For mercy on the merciless. 

It was the autumn of the year 
When grain grows yellow in the ear; 
Day after day, from noon to noon, 
That August's sun blazed bright as June. 

But we with unregarding eyes 
Saw panting earth and glowing skies. 
No hand the reaper's sickle held, 
Nor bound the bright sheaves in the field. 

208 



Why Ask to Know 



Our corn was garnered months before, 
Threshed out and harvested with gore; 
Ground when the ears were milky sweet 
With furious toil of hoofs and feet ; 
I, doubly cursed, on foreign sod, 
Fought neither for my home nor God. 

May 13, 1843. 



14 



209 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



94 



OH, all the cares these noontide airs 
Might seem to drive away, 
So glad and bright each sight appears, 

Each sound so soft and gay! 
And through the shade of yonder glade, 

Where thick the leaves are dancing. 
While jewels rare and fiow'rets fair 

In hundred plumes are glancing. 
For there the palace portals rise 

Beyond its myrtle grove, 
Catching the whitest, brightest dyes 

From the deep blue dome above. 
But here this little lonely spot, 

Retires among its trees. 
By all unknown, and noticed not. 

Save sunshine and the breeze? 



210 



There s Something 



95 



THERE'S something in this glorious hour 
That fills the soul with heavenl}^ power, 
And dims our e^^es with sudden tears 
That centre all the joys of years. 
For we feel at once that there lingers still, 
Like evening sunshine o'er a hill, 
A glory round life's pinnacle; 
And we know, though we be yet below. 
That we may not always linger so, 
For vStill Ambition beckons on, — 
Is this a height that may be won? 
And Hope still whispers in our ear, 
"Others have been — thou mayst be there." 

Land of the west ! Thy glorious skies, 

Their dreamy depths of azure blue, 
Their sunset isles of paradise, 

That float in golden glory through. 
These depths of azure o'er my sight 

This musing moment seem to expand. 
Revealing all their radiance bright 

In cloud and gorgeous land. 
Land of the west ! Thine evening sun 

Brings thousand voiceless thoughts to mind, 

211 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



Of what I've said and seen and done 

In years by time long left behind; 
And forms and faces lost for ever 

Seem arising round me now, 
As if to bid farewell for ever 

Before my spirit go. 
Oh ! How they gush upon my heart 

And overflow my eyes ! 
I must not keep, I cannot part 

With such wild sympathies. 

* * * 
So 'ware her hour approaching fast, 

Upon her dying bed; 
Are her wild dreams of western skies, 
The shattered wrecks of memories 

That glitter through the gloom 
Cast o'er them in the cold decay 
Which signs the sickening soul away 

To meet its early tomb. 
What pleasant airs upon her face 

With freshening coolness play. 
As they would kiss each transient grace 

Before it fades away! 
And backward rolled each deep red fold, 
Begirt with tasselled cords of gold, 

The open arch displays. 
O'er towers and trees that orb divine, 
His own unclouded light, decline 

Before her glistening gaze. 

212 



The Heart IVhich Cannot Know 



96 



THE heart which cannot know another, 
Which will not learn to sympathize, 
In whom the voice of friend, or brother, 

Unheard, unechoed, sleeps or dies; 
Between whom, and the world around, 
Can stretch no life-uniting ties. 



213 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



97 

LADYBIRD! ladybird! fly away home, 
Night is approaching, and sunset is come; 
The herons are flown to their trees by the Hall; 
Felt, but unseen, the damp dewdrops fall. 
This is the close of a still summer day; 
Ladybird! ladybird! haste! fly away! 



214 



Sleep, Moiinier, Sleeps 



/ 



98 

SLEEP, mourner, sleep! — "I cannot sleep, 
My weary mind still wanders on;" 
Tiien silent weep! — ''I cannot weep, 

Forney es and tears seem turned to stone." 

Oh might my footsteps find a rest ! 

Oh might my eyes with tears run o'er! 
Oh could the wound but leave my breast 

To lapse in days that are no more! 

And if I could in silence mourn. 

Apart from lying sympathy 
And man's remarks or sighs or scorn, 

I should be where I wish to be. 

* * * 

For I've been consecrate to grief — 
I should not be if that were gone — 

And all my prospect of relief 

On earth would be to grieve alone! 

To live in sunshine would be now 
To live in Lethe; every thought 

Of what I have seen and been below 
Must first be utterly forgot. 

« * ♦ 

215 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



And voices tuned to music's thrill, 
And laughter light as marriage strain, 

Will only wake a ghostly chill, 
As if the buried spoke again. 

All — all is over; friend or lover 

Cannot awaken gladness here; 
Though sweep the strings their music over, 

No sound will rouse the stirless air. 



216 



How Edenlike Seem Palace Walls 



99 



HOW Edenlike seem palace walls 
When youth and beauty join 
To waken up their lighted Halls 
With looks and smiles divine! 

How free from care the perfumed air 

About them seems to play! 
How glad and bright appears each sight, 

Each sound how soft and gay! 

'Tis like the heaven which parting days 

In summer's pride imbue 
With beams of such impartial blaze, 

And yet so tender too! 

Oh, memory brings a scene to mind 

Beneath whose noble dome 
Rank, beauty, wealth, and power combine 

To light their lordly home. 

Yet parting day, however bright, 

It still is parting day — 
The herald of approaching night, 

The trappings of decay. 



217 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



100 



* * 



HERE am I standing lonely 'neath 
The shade of quiet trees, 
That scarce can catch a single breath 

Of this sweet evening breeze. 
And nothing in the twilight sky 
Except its veil of clouds on high, 

All sleeping calm and grey; 
And nothing on the summer gale 
But the sweet trumpet's solemn wail 

Slow sounding far away. 

That and the strange, uncertain sound 
Scarce heard, yet heard by all; 

A trembling through the summer ground, 
K murmuring round the wall. 



218 



// PFas a Little Budding Rose 



lOI 



IT was a little budding rose, 
Round like a fairy globe, 
And shyly did its leaves unclose 

Hid in their mossy robe, 
But sweet was the slight and spicy smell 
It breathed from its heart invisible. 



The rose is blasted, withered, blighted, 

Its root has felt a worm. 
And like a heart beloved and slighted, 

Failed, faded, shrunk its form. 
Bud of beauty, bonnie flower, 
I stole thee from thy natal bower. 

I was the worm that withered thee. 
Thy tears of dew all fell for me ; 
Leaf and stalk and rose are gone. 
Exile earth they died upon. 
Yes, that last breath of balmy scent 
With alien breezes sadly blent ! 



219 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



102 



« 



ALL her tresses backward strayed 
Look golden in the gleam, 
But her wan lips and sunken cheek 
And full eyes eloquently speak 

Of sorrows gathering near, 
Till those dark orbs o'er flowing fast 
Are shadowed by her hand at last 
To hide the streaming tear. 

Oh! say not that her vivid dreams 

Are but the shattered glass 
Which but because more broken, gleams 

More brightly in the grass. 
Her spirit is the unfathomed lake 
Whose face the sudden tempests break 

To one tormented roar; 
But as the wild winds sink in peace, 
All those disturbed waves decrease, 
Till each far- down reflection is 

As lifelike as before. 

220 



All Her Tresses 

She thought when that confession crossed 

Upon her dying mind, 
'Twas sense and soul and memory lost, 

Though feeling burned behind. 
But that bright heaven has touched a chord 
And that wide west has waked a word 

Can still the spirit's storm; 
Till all the griefs that brought her here, 
Each gushing with a bitterer tear. 
Round her returning sight appear 

In more tremendous form; 

In glimpses of a spirit shore 

The strength of eyesight to restore 

Which coming death denied; 
That while the world was lost to her 
Her soul might rove a wanderer 

Through visional wonders wide. 

And strange it is how oft in death, 

When reason leaves the brain, 
What sudden power the fancy hath 

To seize the falling rein. 
It cannot hold a firm control. 
But it can guide the parting soul, 

Half leading and half led, 
Through dreams where startling imagery 
Hide with their feigned reality 

The tossed and fevered bed. 

221 



Poems by Efutly Bronte 



It seems as to the bleeding heart 

With dying torments riven 
A quickened Hfe in every part 

By fancy's force was given. 
And all these dim, disjointed dreams, 
Wherewith the failing memory beams, 

Are but the bright reflection 
Flashed upward from the scattered glass 
Of mirror broken on the grass. 
Which shapeless figures on each piece 

Reveals without connection. 



222 



start Not I upon the Minster IVall 



103 

START not ! upon the minster wall 
' Sunshine is shed in holy calm, 
And lonely though thy footsteps fall, 
The saints shall shelter thee from harm. 

Shrink not if it be summer noon, 

This shadow should night's welcome be; 

These stairs are steep, but landed soon 
We'll rest us long and quietly. 

What though our path be o'er the dead, 
They slumber soundly in the tomb; 

And why should mortals fear to tread 
The pathway to their future home? 



223 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



104 

THROUGH the hours of yesternight 
Hall and gallery blazed with light. 
Every lamp its lustre showered 
On the adorer and the adored. 
None were sad that entered there, 
All were loved and all were fair ; 
Some were dazzling like the sun 
Shining down at summer noon. 
Some were sweet as amber even, 
Living in the depth of Heaven; 
Some were soft, and kind, and gay, 

Morning's face not more divine; 
Some were like Diana's day. 

Midnight moonlight's holy shrine. 



224 



Harp of Wild and Dream-like Strain 



105 

HARP of wild and dream-like strain, 
When I touch thy strings, 
Why dost thou repeat again 
Long-forgotten things? 

Harp, in other earlier days 

I could sing to thee, 
And not one of all my lays 

Vexed my memory. 

But now if I awake a note 

That gave me joy before, 
Sounds of sorrow from thee float, 

Changing evermore. 

Yet still steeped in memory's dyes 

They come sailing on, 
Darkening all my summer skies. 

Shutting out my sun. 



IS 225 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



io6 



HERE with my knee upon thy stone 
I bid adieu to feelings gone; 
I leave with thee my tears and pain, 
And rush into the world again. 

O come again! what chains withhold 
The steps that used so fleet to be? 

Come leave thy dwelling dark and cold, 
Once more to visit me. 



226 



In Dungeons Dark 



107 

IN dungeons dark I cannot sing, 
In sorrow's thrall 'tis hard to smile; 
What bird can soar with broken wing? 
What heart can bleed and joy the while? 



227 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



1 08 

WHEN days of beauty deck the vale, 
Or stormy nights descend, 
How well my spirit knows the path 
On which it ought to wend. 

It seeks the consecrated spot 
Beloved in childhood's years; 

The space between is all forgot, 
Its sufferings and its tears. 



228 



Fall, Leaves, Fall 




• 109 

FALL, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; 
Lengthen night and shorten day! 
Every leaf speaks bliss to me. 
Fluttering from the autumn tree. 
I shall smile when wreaths of snow 
Blossom where the rose should grow; 
I shall sing when night's decay 
Ushers in a drearier day. 



229 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



no 



ALL day I've toiled, but not with pain, 
In learning's golden mine; 
And now at eventide again 
The moonbeams softly shine. 

There is no snow upon the ground, 

No frost on wind or wave; 
The south wind blew with gentlest sound 

And broke their icy grave. 

'Tis sweet to wander here at night, 

To watch the winter die, 
With heart as summer sunshine light, 

And warm as summer sky. 

O may I never lose the peace 

That lulls me gently now, 
Though time should change my youthful face, 

And years should shade my brow! 

True to myself, and true to all, 

May I be healthful still. 
And turn away from passion's call. 

And curb my own wild will. 



230 



That Dreary Lake 



III 



THAT dreary lake, that moonlight sky, 
That wan moon struggling through the 
cloud, 
That sullen murmur whispering by, 

As if it dared not speak aloud, 
Fall on my heart so sadly now, 
Whither my joys so lonely flow. 
Touch them not, they bloom and smile, 
But their roots are withering all the while. 



231 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



112 

SHE dried her tears and they did smile 
To see her cheek's returning glow; 
Nor did discern how all the while 
That full heart throbbed to overflow. 

With that sweet look and lively tone, 
And bright eye shining all the day, 

The}^ could not guess at midnight lone 
How she would weep the time away. 



232 



Fm Happiest Now 



113 

I'M happiest now when most away 
I can tear my soul from its mould of clay, 
On a windy night when the moon is bright, 
And my eye can wander through worlds of light. 

When I am not, and none beside, 

Nor earth, nor sea, nor cloudless sky, 

But only spirit wandering wide 
Through infinite immensity. 



233 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



114 

ALL hushed and still within the house; 
Without, all wind and driving rain; 
But something whispers to my mind, 
Wrought up in rain and wailing wind: 
Never again? Why not again? Never again! 
Memory has power as well as wind! 



234 



My Ancient Ship 



115 



MY ancient ship upon my ancient sea 
Begins another voyage — nay, thou'rt gone, 
But whither wending? who is gone with thee? 

Since parted from thee I am left alone, 
Unknowing what my river's fate may be, 

Into its native world of tempests thrown. 
Lost like a speck from my diverted eye. 
Which wilder, mightier visions must survey; 

Lost and unnoticed — far away the roar 
Of southern waters breaking to the wind, 

With restless thunder rolling on before 
As the wild gale sweeps wilder on behind. 

And every vision of old Afric's shore 

As much forgot and vanished out of mind 

As the wild track thou marked'st so long ago 

From those eternal waves which surge below. 

Gone! — 'tis a word which through life's troubled 
waste 

Seems always coming, and the only one 
Which can be called the present. Hope is past, 

And hate and strife, and love and peace are gone 

235 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



Before we think them, for their rapid haste 
Scarce gives us time for one short smile or 

groan, 
Ere that thought dies, and new ones come 

between 
It and our heart with some as fleeting scene. 

And yet there is — or seems at least to be — 
A general haze of thought that colours all; 

So though each one be different, all agree 
In the same melancholy shade-like pall; 

Even as the shadows look the same to me, 
Though cast, I know, from many a varying 
wall 

In this vast city — hut and temple sharing 

In the same light, and the same darkness wearing. 

Not that I deem all life a course of shade, 

Nor all the world a waste of streets like these : 
*From youth to age a mighty change is made 
As from this city to the southern seas. 

For years through youthful hope our course is laid, 
For years in sloth, a sea without a breeze, 

For years amid the stir of civil jar. 

For years within, some silent, sleepless care, 

Changing, and still the same, yet swiftly passing. 

'Tis here, 'tis there, 'tis nowhere — oh ! my soul. 
Is there no rest from such a fruitless chasing 

Of the wild dreams that ever round thee roll? 

236 



My Ancient Ship 

Each as it comes the parting thought defacing, 

Yet all still hurrying to the self-same goal. 
Gone! Can I catch them? — but their path 

alone 
Stretching afar toward one for ever gone! 

What have I written? Nothing, for 'tis over, 
And seems as nothing in the single cloud 

That shadows it, and long has seemed to hover 
O'er all the crossing thoughts that overflowed 

In this wrecked spirit; oh! my ocean, 

Well may'st thou plough the deep so free and 
proud : 

Thou bear'st the uniting tie of ceaseless dreams. 

The fount, the confluence of a thousand streams. 



II 

I do not see myself again 

A wanderer o'er the Atlantic main; 

I do not backward turn my eye 

Toward sleepless sea and stormy sky. 

Oh no ; these vanished visions rest 

In far-off woodlands of the west ; 

And there let Hesperus arise 

To watch my treasure where it lies. 

The present scenes, the present clime, 
Forbid the dreams of olden time; 

237 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



The present thoughts, the present hour, 
Are rife with deeds of sterner power : 
And who shall be my leading star 
Amid the howling storm of war? 



Hark! listen to the distant gun 
From the battlefield of Edwardston; * 
It breaks upon the awful roar 

Which stuns my ears around, 
And on their shout of victory 

Strikes with a hollow sound. 
My struggles all are crowned with power, 
And Fortune gives a glorious hour. 
Men who hate me kneel before me, 
Men who kneel are forced to adore me; 
My name is on a million tongues, 
The million babble on my wrongs; 
And twenty years of tyrant pride 
Which swore this modern God to hide, 
At last have vanished in the rays 
Of his unquenched, unclouded blaze. 
Oh ! is not Jesus come again 
Over His thousand saints to reign? 
To free the world from terror's chain. 
While sin and Satan vainly spit 
Their venomed fury, as they sit. 

Edwardston is one of the "Gondal " names. 

238 



My Ancient Ship 



Their reign is past, their power is gone, 

For fallen is mighty Babylon. 

Through the hoarse howling of the storm 

I saw, — but did I truly see 
One glimpse of that unearthly form 

Whose very name is Victory? 
'Twas but a glance, and all seems past, 

For cares like clouds again return, 
And I'll forget him, till the blast 

For ever from my soul has borne 
That vision of a mighty man 
Crushed into Dust ! — 

Forget him! — In the cannon's smoke — 

How dense it thickens, till on high. 

By the wild storm-blasts roughl}^ broke. 

It parts in volumes through the sky 

That heavily are drifting by, 

'Till the dread burst breaks forth once more 

With whitening clouds which seem to fly 

Affrighted from that ceaseless roar. 

And there it lightens! Dashed with gore 

The thick of battle rends in twain. 

While their rough ranks of bristling steel 

Flashing afar, while armed men 

In mighty masses long and vast. 

Like the wild waters of the main 

Lashed into foam. — When, there again 

Behold him! . . . 

239 



Poems by Ejnily Bronte 



HI 

Yet o'er his face a solemn light 
Comes smiling from the sky, 

And shows to sight the lustre bright 
Of his uplifted eye; 

The aimless, heedless carelessness 

Of happy infancy 
O'er such a solemn fearfulness 

Commingling with his glee, 

The parted lips, the golden hair 
That backward from his brow. 
Without a single shade of care, 
All hushed amid that moonlight air; 
Oh, who so blest as thou! 

Memory! how thy magic fingers, 
With a wild and passing thrill, 

Wakes the chord whose spirit lingers, 
Sleeping silently and still. 

Fast asleep and almiost dying, 

Through my days of changeless pain, 

Till I dream these strings are lying, 
Never to be waked again. 

Winds have blown, but all unknown; 

Nothing could arouse a tone 

In that heart which like a stone 
Senselessly has lain. 

240 



My Ancient Ship 

All seemed over — friend and lover 
Strove to waken music there; 

Flew the strings their fingers over, 
Still in silence slept the air. 

Memory ! Memory comes at last, 

Memory of feelings past, 

And with an ^clian blast 

, Strikes the strings resistlessly. 

July, 1836. 

Certain of the lines included in the above poem appear in 
a manuscript of Emily Bronte's in the form of three un- 
finished stanzas, at the side of which she has scribbled the 
following words: 

"I am more terrifically and infernally and idiotically and 
brutally stuhd — than ever I was in the whole course of my 
incarnate existence. The above precious lines are the 
fruits of one hour's most agonizing labour between y^ past 
6 and yi past 7 in the evening of Wednesday July 1836." 



13 241 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



ii6 



ONE pause upon the brink of life, 
Before it breaks, in headlong strife, 
Upon its downward road; 
One insight through the waters clear, 
Before their pictures disappear 
In the fierce foaming flood. 



242 



Shed No Tears 



117 

SHED no tears o'er that tomb, 
For there are angels weeping; 
Mourn not him whose doom 
- Heaven itself is mourning. 

Look how in sable gloom 

The clouds are earthward yearning; 
And earth receives them home, 

Even darker clouds returning. 

Is it when good men die 
That sorrow wakes above? , 

Grieve saints when other spirits fly 
To swell their choir of love? 

Ah ! no : with louder sound 

The golden harp strings quiver, 
When good men gain the happy ground 
Where they must dwell for ever. 

But he who slumbers there. 
His bark will strive no more 
Across the waters of despair 

To reach that glorious shore. 

243 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



The time of grace is past, 

And mercy, scorned and tried, 
Forsakes to utter wrath at last 
The soul so steeled by pride. 

That wrath will never spare, 
Will never pity know; 
Will mock its victim's maddened prayer, 
Will triumph in his woe. 

Shut from his Maker's smile 
The accursed man shall be; 
For mercy reigns a little while, 
But hate eternally.^ 

July 26, 1839. 

'^ An alternative in the author's manuscript runs: 

"Compassion smiles a little while, 
Revenge eternally." 



244 



stars 



ii8 

Stars 

AH ! why, because the dazzling sun 
Restored our Earth to joy, 
Haye you departed, every one, 
And left a desert sky? 

All through the night, your glorious eyes 

Were gazing down in mine, 
And, with a full heart's thankful sighs, 

I blessed that watch divine. 

I was at peace, and drank your beams 

As they were life to me; 
And revelled in my changeful dreams, 

Like petrel on the sea. 

Thought followed thought, star followed star 

Through boundless regions on; 
While one sweet influence, near and far. 

Thrilled through, and proved us one! 

Why did the morning dawn to break 

So great, so pure, a spell; 
And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek, 

Where your cool radiance fell? 

245 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



Blood-red, he rose, and, arrow-straight, 
His fierce beams struck my brow; 

The soul of nature sprang, elate, 
But mine sank sad and low ! 

My lids closed down, yet through their veil 

I saw him, blazing still, 
And steep in gold the misty dale, 

And flash upon the hill. 

I turned me to the pillow, then, 

To call back night, and see 
Your worlds of solemn light again 

Throb with my heart, and me ! 

It would not do — the pillow glowed. 
And glowed both roof and floor; 

And birds sang loudly in the wood. 
And fresh winds shook the door; 

The curtains waved, the wakened flies 
Were murmuring round my room. 

Imprisoned there, till I should rise. 
And give them leave to roam. 

Oh, stars, and dreams, and gentle night; 

Oh, night and stars, return! 
And hide me from the hostile light 

That does not warm, but burn; 

246 



stars 

That drains the blood of suffering men, 
Drinks tears, instead of dew; 

Let me sleep through his blinding reign, 
And only wake with you! 



247 



Pccnis by Emily Bronie 



119 

Anticipation 

HOW beautiful the earth is still, 
To thee — how full of happiness 
How little fraught with real ill, 

Or unreal phantoms of distress ! 
How spring can bring thee glory, yet, 
And summer win thee to forget 

December's sullen time! 
Why dost thou hold the treasure fast. 
Of youth's delight, when youth is past, 

And thou art near thy prime? 

When those who were thy own compeers, 

Equals in fortune and in years. 

Have seen their morning m.elt in tears, 

To clouded, smileless day; 
Blest, had they died untried and young, 
Before their hearts went wandering wrong, - 
Poor slaves, subdued by passions strong, 

A weak and helpless prey ! 

"Because I hoped while they enjoyed. 
And by fulfilment, hope destroyed; 

• 248 



Anticipation 

As children hope, with trustful breast, 
I waited bliss, and cherished rest. 
A thoughtful spirit taught me soon. 
That we must long till life be done; 
That every phase of earthly joy 
Must always fade, and always cloy. 

''This I foresaw — and would not chase 

The fleeting treacheries; 
But, with firm foot and tranquil face, 
Held backward from that tempting race, 
Gazed o'er the sands the waves efface 

To the enduring seas. 
There cast my anchor of desire 

Deep in unknown eternity; 
Nor ever let my spirit tire, 

With looking for what is to be ! 

"It is hope's spell that glorifies, 
Like youth, to my maturer e3'^es. 
All Nature's million mysteries, 

The fearful and the fair — 
Hope soothes me in the griefs I know; 
She lulls my pain for others' woe. 
And makes me strong to undergo 

What I am born to bear. 

"Glad comforter! will I not brave, 
Unawed, the darkness of the grave? 
Nay, smile to hear Death's billows rave- 

249 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



Sustained, my guide, by thee? 
The more unjust seems present fate, 
The more my spirit swells elate, 
Strong, in th}^ strength, to anticipate 

Rewarding destiny!" 



250 



Hope 



120 

Hope 

HOPE was but a timid friend; 
She sat without the grated den, 
Watching how my fate would tend, 
Even as selfish-hearted men. 

She was cruel in her fear; 

Through the bars, one dreary day, 
I looked out to see her there. 

And she turned her face away! 

Like a false guard, false watch keeping, 
Still, in strife, she whispered peace; 

She would sing while I was weeping; 
If I listened, she would cease. 

False she was, and unrelenting; 

When my last joys strev/ed the ground, 
Even Sorrow saw, repenting. 

Those sad relics scattered round; 

Hope, whose whisper would have given 

Balm to all my frenzied pain. 
Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven, 

Went, and ne'er returned again! 



251 



Poems by Efni/y Bronte 



121 



To Imagination 

WHEN weary with the long day's care, 
And earthly change from pain to pain, 
And lost, and ready to despair. 

Thy kind voice calls me back again, 
Oh, my true friend! I am not lone. 
While thou canst speak with such a tone! 

So hopeless is the world without. 
The world within I doubly prize ; 

Thy world, where guile and hate and doubt 
And cold suspicion never rise; 

Where thou and I and Liberty 

Have undisputed sovereignty. 

What matters it, that all around 
Danger and guilt and darkness lie, 

If but within our bosom's bound 
We hold a bright, untroubled sky, 

Warm with ten thousand mingled rays 

Of suns that know no winter days? 

Reason, indeed, may oft complain 
For Nature's sad reality, 

252 



To Imagination 

And tell the suffering heart how vain 

Its cherished dreams must always be; 
And Truth may rudely trample down 
The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown: 

But thou art ever there, to bring 

The hovering vision back, and breathe 

New glories o'er the blighted spring. 
And call a lovelier Life from Death, 

And whisper, with a voice divine, 

Of real worlds, as bright as thine. 

I trust not to thy phantom bliss, 
Yet, still, in evening's quiet hour, 

With never-failing thankfulness, 
I welcome thee. Benignant Power, 

Sure solacer of human cares. 

And sweeter hope, when hope despairs! 



253 



Poems by Emily Eroiite 



122 

How Clear She Shines! 

HOW clear she shines! How quietly 
I lie beneath her guardian light; 
While heaven and earth are whispering me, 
"To-morrow wake, but dream to-night." 



The world is going; dark world, adieu! 

Grim world, conceal thee till the day; 
The heart thou canst not all subdue 

Must still resist, if thou delay! 

Thy love I will not, will not share; 

Thy hatred only wakes a smile; 
Thy griefs may wound — thy wrongs may tear, 

But, oh, thy lies shall ne'er beguile! 

While gazing on the stars that glow 

Above me, in that stormless sea, 
I long to hope that all the woe 

Creation knows, is held in thee! 



254 



Sympathy 



123 

Sympathy 

THERE should be no despair for you 
' While nightly stars are burning, 
While evening pours its silent dew, 
And sunshine gilds the morning. 
There should be no despair, though tears 

May flow down like a river : 

Are not the best beloved of years 

Around your heart for ever? 

They weep, you weep, — it must be so; 

Winds sigh as you are sighing. 
And winter sheds its grief in snow 

Where Autumn's leaves are lying: 
Yet, these revive, and from their fate 

Your fate cannot be parted: 
Then journey on, if not elate. 

Still never broken-hearted! 



255 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



124 

Plead for Me 

OH, thy bright eyes must answer now, 
When Reason, with a scornful brow, 
Is mocking at my overthrow! 

Oh, thy sweet tongue must plead for me 
And tell why I have chosen thee! 

Stern Reason is to judgment come, 
Arrayed in all her forms of gloom: 
Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb? 
No, radiant angel, speak and say 
Why I did cast the world away. 

Why I have persevered to shun 
The common paths that others run; 
And on a strange road journeyed on, 
Heedless, alike of wealth and power — 
Of glory's wreath and pleasure's flower. 

These, once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine; 
And they, perchance, heard vows of mine, 
And saw my offerings on their shrine; 
But careless gifts are seldom prized, 
And mine were worthily despised. 

256 



Plead for Me 

So, with a ready heart, I swore 
To seek their altar-stone no more; 
And gave my spirit to adore 

Thee, ever-present, phantom thing — 
My slave, my comrade, and my king. 

A slave, because I rule thee still; 
Incline thee to my changeful will, 
And make thy influence good or ill: 
A comrade, for by day and night 
Thou art my intimate delight; 

My darling pain that wounds and sears, 
And wrings a blessing out from tears 
By deadening me to earthly cares; 

And yet, a king, though Prudence well 
Hath taught thy subject to rebel. 

And am I wrong to worship, where 
Faith cannot doubt, nor hope despair. 
Since my own soul can grant my prayer? 
Speak, God of visions, plead for me, 
And tell why I have chosen thee! 



If 257 



Poems hy Emily Bronte 



125 

Selj 'Interrogation 



* 



" A LAS! the countless links are strong 

ilThat bind us to our clay; 
The loving spirit lingers long, 

And would not pass away! 

"And rest is sweet, when laurelled fame 
Will crown the soldier's crest ; 

But a brave heart, with a tarnished name, 
Would rather fight than rest." 

"Well, thou hast fought for many a year, 
Hast fought thy whole life through, 

Hast humbled Falsehood, trampled Fear; 
What is there left to do?" 



(( ) 



Tis true, this arm has hotly striven, 
Has dared what few would dare; 
Much have I done, and freely given. 
But little learnt to bear!" 

- 258 



Self-Interrogatioii 

"Look on the grave where thou must sleep ,- 

Thy last, and strongest foe; 
It is endurance not to weep, 

If that repose seem woe. 

"The long war closing in defeat — 

Defeat serenely borne, — 
Thy midnight rest may still be sweet, 

And break in glorious morn!" 



259 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



126 



Stanzas to 



WELL, some may hate, and some may scorn, 
And some may quite forget thy name; 
But my sad heart must ever mourn 

Thy ruined hopes, thy blighted fame! 
'Twas thus I thought, an hour ago, 
Even weeping o'er that wretch's woe; 
One word turned back my gushing tears, 
And ht my altered eye with sneers. 
Then, "Bless the friendly dust," I said, 
"That hides thy unlamented head! 
Vain as thou wert, and weak as vain, 
The slave of Falsehood, Pride, and Pain — 
My heart has nought akin to thine; 
Thy soul is powerless over mine." 
But these were thoughts that vanished too; 
Unwise, unholy, and untrue: 
Do I despise the timid deer, 
Because his limbs are fleet with fear? 
Or, would I mock the wolf's death-howl. 
Because his form is gaunt and foul? 

^ There is little doubt that the poem refers to Bran well 
Bronte. 

260 



stanzas to 



Or, hear with joy the leveret's cry, 

Because it cannot bravely die? 

No! Then above his memory 

Let Pity's heart as tender be; 

Say, "Earth, lie lightly on that breast. 

And, kind Heaven, grant that spirit rest!" 



261 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



127 

My Comforter 

WELL hast thou spok'n, and yet not taught 
A feeling strange or new; 
Thou hast but roused a latent thought, 
A cloud-closed beam of sunshine brought 
To gleam in open view. 

Deep down, concealed within my soul, 

That light lies hid from men; 
Yet glows unquenched, though shadows roll 
Its gentle ray cannot control. 

About the sullen den. 

Was I not vexed, these gloomy ways 

To walk alone so long? 
Around me, wretches uttering praise, 
Or howling o'er their hopeless days, 

And each with Frenzy's tongue; — 

A brotherhood of misery, 

Their smiles as sad as sighs; 
Whose madness daily maddened me, 
Distorting into agon}^ 

The bliss before my eyes ! 

262 



My Comforter 

So stood I, in Heaven's glorious sun, 

And in the glare of Hell ; 
My spirit drank a mingled tone, 
Of seraph's song, and demon's moan; 
What my soul bore, my soul alone 

Within itself may tell ! 

Like a soft air above a sea, 
Tossed by the tempest's stir; 

A thaw-wind, melting quietly 

The snow-drift on some wintry lea; 

No ! what sweet thing resembles thee, 
My thoughtful Comforter? 

And yet a little longer speak, 

Calm this resentful mood; 
And while the savage heart grows meek. 
For other token do not seek. 
But let the tear upon m}^ cheek 

Evince my gratitude ! 



263 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



128 

The Old Stoic 

RICHES I hold in light esteem, 
And Love I laugh to scorn; 
And lust of fame was but a dream, 
That vanished with the morn : 

And if I pray, the only prayer 
That moves my lips for me 

Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear. 
And give me liberty!" 

Yes, as my swift days near their goal, 

'Tis all that I implore; — 
In life and death a chainless soul, 

With courage to endure. 



264 



A Little IVhile 



129 

A LITTLE while, a little while, 
The weary task is put away, 
And I can sing and I can smile. 
Alike, while I have holiday. 

Where wilt thou go, my harassed heart — 
What thought, what scene invites thee now? 

What spot, or near or far apart. 
Has rest for thee, my weary brow? 

There is a spot, 'mid barren hills, 

Where winter howls, and driving rain; 

But, if the dreary tempest chills, 
There is a light that warms again. 

The house is old, the trees are bare. 
Moonless above bends twilight's dome; 

But what on earth is half so dear, 
So longed for, as the hearth of home? 

The mute bird sitting on the stoneT^^-^ 
The dank moss dripping from the wallx 

The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown, 
I love them — how I love them all! 

265 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



Still, as I mused, the naked room, 

The alien firelight died away; 
And from the midst of cheerless gloom, 

I passed to bright, unclouded day. 

A little and a lone green lane 
That opened on a common wide; 

A distant dreamy dim blue chain 
Of mountains circling every side. 

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm, 
So sweet, so soft, so huvshed an air; 

And, deepening still the dream-like charm, 
Wjld moor-sheep feeding everywhere. 



That was the scene, I knew it well; 

I knew the turfy pathway's sweep, 
That, winding o'er each billowy swell. 

Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep. 

Could I have lingered but an hour, 

It well had paid a week of toil ; 
But Truth has banished Fancy's power; 

Restraint and heavy task recoil. 

Even as I stood with raptured eye, 
Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear. 

My hour of rest had fleeted by. 

And back came labour, bondage, care. 

266 




The Bluebell 



130 

The Bluebell 

THE Bluebell is the sweetest flower 
That waves in summer air : 
Its blossoms have the mightiest power 
To soothe my spirit's care. 

There is a spell in purple heath 

Too wildly, sadly dear; 
The violet has a fragrant breath, 

But fragrance will not cheer. 

The trees are bare, the sun is cold, 

And seldom, seldom seen; 
The heavens have lost their zone of gold, 

And earth her robe of green. 

And ice upon the glancing stream 

Has cast its sombre shade ; 
And distant hills and valleys seem 

In frozen mist arrayed. 

The Bluebell cannot charm me now, 
The heath has lost its bloom; 

The violets in the glen below, 
They yield no sweet perfume. 

267 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



But, though I mourn the sweet Bluebell, 

'Tis better far away; 
I know how fast my tears would swell 
- To see it smile to-day. 

For, oh ! when chill the sunbeams fall 

Adown that dreary sky, 
And gild yon dank and darkened wall 

With transient brilliancy, 

How do I weep, how do I pine 
For the time of flowers to come, 

And turn me from that fading shine, 
To mourn the fields of home I 



268 



TJie Moors 



131 

The Moors 

AWAKEN, o'er all my dear moorland, 
West wind, in thy glory and pride! 
Oh 1 call me from valley and lowland, 
To walk by the hill-torrent's side! 

It is swelled with the first snowy weather; 

The rocks they are icy and hoar, 
And sullenly waves the long heather, 

And the fern leaves are sunny no more. 

There are no yellow stars on the mountain; 

The bluebells have long died away 
From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain, 

From the side of the wintry brae. 

But lovelier than corn-fields all waving 

In emerald, and vermeil, and gold. 
Are the heights where the north wind is raving, 
, \ And the crags where I wandered of old. 

269 



'Poems by Emily Bronte 



It was morning : the bright sun was beaming ; 

How sweetly it brought back to me 
The time when nor labour nor dreaming 

Broke the sleep of the happy and free! 



But blithely we rose as the dawn-heaven 
Was melting to amber and blue, 

And swift were the wings to our feet given, 
As we traversed the meadows of dew. 



For the moors! For the moors, where the short 
grass 
Like velvet beneath us should lie ! 
For the moors ! For the moors, where each high 
pass 
Rose sunny against the clear sky ! 



For the moors, where the linnet was trilling 
Its song on the old granite stone; 

Where the lark, the wild skylark, was filling 
Every breast with delight like its own ! 

What language can utter the feeling 

Which rose, when in exile afar, 
On the brow of a lonely hill kneeling, 

I saw the brown heath growing there? 

270 



Tlie Moors 

It was scattered and stunted, and told me 
That soon even that would be gone: 

It whispered, "The grim walls enfold me, 
I have bloomed in my last summer's sun." 

* * * 

Well — well; the sad minutes are moving 
Though loaded with trouble and pain; 

And some time the loved and the loving 
Shall meet on the mountains again! 



271 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



132 

The Night-Wind 

IN summer's mellow midnight, 
A cloudless moon shone through 
Our open parlour window, 
And rose-trees wet with dew. 

I sat in silent musing; 

The soft wind waved my hair; 
It told me heaven was glorious, 

And sleeping earth was fair. 

I needed not its breathing 

To bring such thoughts to me; 

But still it whispered lowly, 
"How dark the woods will be!" 

"The thick leaves in my arbour 
Are rustling like a dream. 

And all their myriad voices 
Instinct with spirit seem." 

I said, "Go, gentle singer, 
Thy wooing voice is kind : 

But do not think its music 
Has power to reach my mind. 

272 



The Night- Wind 

"Play with the scented flower, 
The young tree's supple bough, 

And leave my human feelings 
In their own course to flow.'* 

The wanderer would not heed me; 

Its kiss grew warmer still. 
"0 come!" it sighed so sweetly; 
I'll win thee 'gainst thy will. 



<( 



"Were we not friends from childhood? 

Have I not loved thee long? 
As long as thou the solemn night, 

Whose silence wakes my song. 

**And when thy heart is resting 
Beneath the church-aisle stone, 

I shall have time for mourning, 
And thou for being alone." 

[Note by Charlotte Bronte prefixed to this poem in the 
edition of 1850: 

" 'The Night-wind' breathing through an open window, 
has visited an ear which discerned language in its 
whispers."] 



18 273 



Poems by Emily Dronte 



133 

AY — there it is ! it wakes to-night 
Deep feelings I thought dead; 
Strong in the blast — quick gathering light, 
The heart's flame kindles red. 

"Now I can tell by thine altered cheek, 

And by thine eyes' full gaze, 
And by the words thou scarce dost speak, 

How wildly fancy plays. 

"Yes — I could swear that glorious wind 

Has swept the world aside, 
Has dashed its memory from thy mind 

Like foam-bells from the tide: 

"And thou art now a spirit pouring 

Thy presence into all : 
The thunder of the tempest's roaring, 

The whisper of its fall : 

"An universal influence, 

From thine own influence free; 

A principle of life, intense, 
Lost to mortality. 

274 -y 



Ay — Tliere It Is I 



"Thus truly, when that breast is cold, 

Thy prisoned soul shall rise; 
The dungeon mingle with the mould — 

The captive with the skies. 

"Nature's deep being thine shall hold, 
Her spirit all thy spirit fold, 

Her breath absorb thy sighs. 
Mortal! though soon life's tale is told; 

Who once lives, never dies!" 

[Note by Charlotte Bronte prefixed to this poem in the 
edition of 1850: 

"In these stanzas a louder gale has roused the sleeper on 
her pillow; the wakened soul struggles to blend with the 
storm by which it is swayed."] 



275 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



134 

Love and Friendship 

LOVE is like the wild rose-briar; 
Friendship like the holly-tree. 
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, 
But which will bloom most constantly? 

The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring, 
Its summer blossoms scent the air; 

Yet wait till winter comes again, 

And who will call the wild-briar fair! 

Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now. 
And deck thee with the holly's sheen, 

That, when December blights thy brow, 
He still may leave thy garland green. 



. 276 



Often Rebuked 



135 

OFTEN rebuked, yet always back returning 
-To those first feelings that were born 
with me, 
And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning 
For idle dreams of things which cannot be: 

To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region; 

Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear; 
And visions rising, legion after legion, 

Bring the unreal world too strangely near. 

I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces, 
And not in paths of high morality, 

And not among the half-distinguished faces, 
The clouded forms of long-past history. 

I'll walk where my own nature would be leading: 
It vexes me to choose another guide: 

Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding; 
Where the wild wind blows on the mountain- 
side. 

277 



Poems by Einily Bronte 



What have those lonely mountains worth reveal- 
ing? 
More glory and more grief than I can tell: 
The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling 
Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and 
Hell. 



i 



278 



No Coward Soul Is Mine 



136' 



NO coward soul is mine, 
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled 
- sphere : 

I see Heaven's glories shine, 
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear. 

God within my breast, 
Almighty, ever-present Deity! 

Life — that in me has rest. 
As I — undying Life — have power in Thee ! 

Vain are the thousand creeds 
That move men's hearts, unutterably vain. 

Worthless as withered weeds. 
Or idle froth amid the boundless main. 

To waken doubt in one 
Holding so fast by Thine infinity; 

So surely anchored on 
The steadfast rock of immortality. 

' The following are the last lines my sister Emily ever 
wrote. — C. B. 

279 



Poems by Emily Bronte 



With wide-embracing love 
Thy spirit animates eternal years, 

Pervades and broods above, 
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears. 

Though earth and man were gone, 
And suns and universes ceased to be, 

And Thou wert left alone. 
Every existence would exist in Thee. 

There is not room for Death, 
Nor atom that his might could render void: 

Thou — Thou art Being and Breath. 
And what Thou art may never be destroyed. 



280 



POEMS BY ANNE BRONTE 



281 



The Bhtebell 



The Bluebell 

A FINE and subtle spirit dwells 
In every little flower, 
Each one its own sweet feeling breathes 
With more or less of power. 

There is a silent eloquence, 

In every wild bluebell, 

That fills m}^ softened heart with bliss 

That words could never tell. 

Yet I recall not long ago, 
A bright and sunny day. 
'Twas when I led a toilsome life 
So many leagues away; 

That day along a sunny road 

All carelessly I strayed, 

Between two banks where smiling flowers 

Their varied hues displayed. 

Before me rose a loft 3^ hill. 
Behind me lay the sea; 
My heart was not so heavy then 
As it was wont to be. 

283 



Poems by Anne Bronte 

. Wk 

Less harassed than at other times ^H 

I saw the scene was fair, ^ 

And spoke and laughed to those around, 
As if I knew no care. 

But as I looked upon the bank, 
IMy wandering glances fell 
Upon a little trembling flower, 
A single sweet bluebell. 

Whence came that rising in my throat, 
That dimness in my eyes? 
Why did those burning drops distil. 
Those bitter feelings rise? 

Oh, that lone flower recalled to me 
My happy childhood's hours, 
When bluebells seemed like fairy gifts, 
A prize among the flowers. 

Those sunny days of merriment 
When heart and soul were free. 
And when I dwelt with kindred hearts 
That loved and cared for me. 

I had not then mid heartless crowds 
To spend a thankless life. 
In seeking after other's weal 
With anxious toil and strife. 

284 



The Bhiebell 

**Sad wanderer, weep those blissful times 
That never may return!" 
The lovely floweret seemed to say, 
And thus it made me mourn. 

August 22, 1840. 



285 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



Lines Written at Thorp Green^ 

THAT summer sun, whose genial glow 
Now cheers my drooping spirit so, 
Must cold and silent be. 
And only light our northern clime 
With feeble ray, before the time 
I long: so much to see. 



But if the sunny Summer time 

And woods and meadows in their prime 

Are sweet to them that roam, 
Far sweeter is the Winter bare 
With long dark nights and landscape drear 

To them that are at Home ! 

August 19, 1 841. 

^ A house where Anne Bronte was governess, her brother 
Branwell being at the same time tutor there. 



286 



The Dungeon 



The Dungeon 

THOUGH not a breath can enter here, 
I know the wind blows fresh and free; 
I know the sun is shining clear 
Though not a gleam can visit me. 

They thought while I in darkness lay 
'Twere pity that I should not know 
How all the earth is smiling gay, 
How fresh the vernal breezes blow. 

They knew such tidings to impart 
Would pierce my weary spirit through; 
And could they better read my heart, 
They'd tell me she was smiling too. 

They need not, for I know it well, 
Methinks I see her even now. 
No sigh disturbs her bosom's swell, 
No shade o'ercasts her angel brow. 

Unmarred by grief her matchless voice, 
Whence sparkling wit, and wisdom flow: 
And others in its sound rejoice, 
And taste the joys I must not know; 

287 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



Drink rapture from her soft dark eye, 
And sunshine from her heavenly smile; 
On wings of bliss their moments fly 
And I am pining here the while! 

Oh ! tell me, does she never give 

To my distress a single sigh? 

She smiles on them, but does she grieve 

One moment, when they are not by? 

When she beholds the sunny skies, 
And feels the wind of heaven blow; 
Has she no tear for him that lies 
In dungeon gloom so far below? 

While others gladly round her press, 
And at her side their hours beguile, 
Has she no sigh for his distress, 
Who cannot see a single smile, 

Nor hear one word, nor read a line 
That her beloved hand might write; 
Who banished from her face must pine, 
Each day a long a lonely night ? 

December i6, 1844. 



288 



Night 



Night'' 

II^OVE the silent hour of night, 
For blissful dreams may then arise, 
Revealing to my charmed sight, 
What may not bless my waking eyes. 

And then a voice may meet my ear, 
That death has silenced long ago; 
And hope and rapture may appear 
Instead of solitude and woe. 

Cold in the grave for years has lain 
The form it was my bliss to see; 
And only dreams can bring again, 
The darling of my heart to me. 

Written early in 1845. 



19 289 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



Dreams^ 

WHILE on my lonely couch I lie, 
I seldom feel myself alone, 
For fancy fills my dreaming eye 

With scenes and pleasures of its own. 

Then I may cherish at my breast 
An infant's form beloved and fair, 

May smile and soothe it into rest 
With all a Mother's fondest care. 

How sweet to feel its helpless form 
Depending thus on me alone! 

And while I hold it safe and warm 
What bliss to think it is my own ! 

And glances then may meet my eyes 
That daylight never showed to me; 

What raptures in my bosom rise, 
Those earnest looks of love to see. 

To feel my hand so kindly prest. 
To know myself beloved at last, 

To think my heart has found a rest, 
My life of solitude is past ! 

290 



Dreams 

But then to wake, and find it flown, 
The dream of happiness destroyed, 

To find myself unloved, alone. 

What tongue can speak the dreary void ? 

Spring, 1845. 



291 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



Song 

WE know where deepest lies the snow, 
And where the frost-winds keenest blow, 
On every mountain brow. 
We long have known and learnt to bear, 
The wandering outlaw's toil and care. 
But where we late were hunted, there 
Our foes are hunted now. 

We have their princely homes, and they, 
To our wild haunts are chased away, 

Dark woods, and desert caves; 
And we can range from hill to hill. 
And chase our vanquished victors still, 
Small respite will they find, until 

They slumber in their graves. 

But I would rather be the hare. 
That crouching in its sheltered lair, 

Must start at every sound; 
That forced from cornfields waving wide, 
Is driven to seek the bare hillside. 
Or in the tangled copsewood hide. 

Than be the hunter's hound ! 

September 3, 1845. 

292 



/ Dreamt Last AHght 



7* 

1 DREAMT last night, and in that dream 
My boyhood's heart was mine again, 
These latter years did nothing seem 

With all their mingled joy and pain; 
Their thousand deeds of good and ill, 
Their hopes which time did not fulfil, 
Their glorious moments of success, 
Their love that closed in bitterness. 
Their hate that grew with growing strength. 
Their darling projects — dropped at length, 
And higher aims that still prevail ; 
For I must perish ere they fail, — 
That crowning object of my life. 
The end of all my toil and strife, 
Source of my virtues and m}^ crimes, 
For which I've toiled and striven in vain, — 
But if I fail a thousand times, 
Still I will toil and strive again. 
Yet even this was then forgot, 
My present heart and soul were not; 
All the rough lessons life has taught, 

That are become a part of me, 
A moment's sleep to nothing brought 

And made me what I used to be; 

293 



Poems by Aitite Bronte 



And I was roaming light and gay, 
Upon a breezy sunny day, 

A bold and careless youth. 
No guilty stain was on my mind, 
And, if not over soft or kind. 

My heart was full of truth. 
It was a well-known mountain scene. 
Wild steeps, with rugged glens between, 
I should have thirsted to explore, 
Had I not trod them oft before; 
A younger boy was with me there. 

His hand upon my shoulder leant. 
His heart, like mine, was free from care. 

His breath with sportive toil was spent; 
For my rough pastimes he would share. 
And equal dangers loved to dare. 

Though seldom I would care to vie, 
In learning's keen pursuit with him. 

I loved free air and open sky 
Better than books and tutors grim, 
And we had wandered far that day 
O'er that forbidden ground awa}^ 
Ground, to our rebel feet how dear, — 
Danger and freedom both were there ! — 
Had climbed the steep and coursed the 

dale. 
Until his strength began to fail. 
He bade me pause and breathe awhile, 
But spoke it with a happy smile, 

294 



/ Dreamt Last Night 

His lips were parted to inhale 
The breeze that swept the ferny dale, 
And chased the clouds across the sky 
And waved his locks in passing by, 
And fanned my cheek — so real did seem 
This strange, untrue, but truthlike dream- 
And as we stood, I laughed to see 
His fair young cheek so brightly glow, 
He turned his sparkling eyes to me 
With looks no painter's art could show, 
Nor words portray, but earnest mirth, 

And truthful love I there descried. 
And, while I thought upon his worth, 

My bosom glowed with joy and pride. 
I could have kissed his forehead fair, 

I could have clasped him to my heart, 
But tenderness with me was rare, 

And I must take a rougher part; 
I seized him in m}^ boisterous mirth, 
I bore him struggling to the earth. 
And grappling, strength for strength, we 

strove, 
He half in wrath, I all for love. 
But I gave o'er the strife at length, 
Ashamed of my superior strength, 
The rather that I marked his eye. 
Kindle as if a change were nigh. 
We paused to breathe a little space, 

Reclining on the heather brae, 

295 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



But still I gazed upon his face, 

To watch the shadow pass away. 
I grasped his hand, and it had fled, 
A smile, a laugh, and all was well; 
Upon my breast he leant his head, 
And into graver talk we fell, — 
More serious, yet so blest, did seem 

That calm communion then, 
That, when I found it but a dream, 

I longed to sleep again. 
At first remembrance slowly woke. 

Surprise, regret, successive rose. 
That Love's strong cords should thus be 
broke. 

And dearest friends turn deadliest foes. 
Then, like a cold, overwhelming flood 
Upon my soul it burst ; — 
This heart had thirsted for his blood, 
This hand allayed that thirst ! 
These eyes had watched without a tear, 

His dying agony; 
These ears, unmoved, had heard his prayer. 
This tongue had cursed him suffering there, 

And mocked him bitterly ! 

Unwonted weakness o*er me crept ; 
I sighed — nay, weaker still — I wept I 
Wept, like a woman, o'er the deed 
I had been proud to do ; 

296 



/ Dremnt Last Night 



As I had made his bosom bleed, 
My own was bleeding too. 

Back foolish tears! the man I slew 

Was not the boy I cherished so; 
And that young arm that clasped the friend 
Was not the same that stabbed the foe; 
By time and adverse thoughts estranged, 
And wrongs and vengeance, both were changed. 
Repentance now were worse than vain, 
Time's current cannot backward run. 
And, be the action wrong or right, 

It is for ever done. 

* * * 
September 12, 1846. 



297 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



8= 



SEVERED and gone, so many years, 
And art thou still so dear to me. 
That throbbing heart and burning tears, 
Can witness how I clung to thee? 

I know that in the narrow tomb 
The form I loved was buried deep, 
And left in silence, and in gloom, 
To slumber out its dreamless sleep. 



For ever gone! for I, b}^ night 
Have pra3^ed, within my silent room 
That Heaven would grant a burst of light 
Its cheerless darkness to illume. 

And give thee to my longing eyes, 
A moment, as thou shinest now. 
Fresh from thy mansion in the skies, 
With all its glory on thy brow. 

Wild was the wish, intense the gaze, 
I fixed upon the murky air, 
Expecting, half, a kindling blaze 
Would strike my raptured vision there, — 

298 



Severed and Gone 



A shape these human nerves would thrill, 
A majesty that might appal, 
Did not thy earthly likeness still 
Gleam softly, gladly through it all. 

False hope ! vain prayer ! It might not be 
That thou shouldst visit earth again; 
I called on heaven — I called on thee — 
And watched, and waited, all in vain! 

* * 4: 

A few cold words on yonder stone, 

A corpse as cold as they can be, 

Vain words and mouldering dust, alone, — 

Can this be all that's left of thee? 

Oh, no! thy spirit lingers still 
Where'er thy sunny smile was seen, 
There's less of darkness, less of chill 
On earth, than if thou hadst not been. 

* * * 

Life seems more sweet that thou didst live, 
And men more true that thou wert one; 
Nothing is lost that thou didst give, 
Nothing destroyed that thou hadst done. 

* * * 
April, 1847. 



299 



Poems by A^ine Bronte 




OH, they have robbed me of the hope 
My spirit held so dear; 
They will not let me hear that voice 
My soul delights to hear. 

They will not let me see that face 

I so delight to see; 
And they have taken all thy smiles, 

And all thy love from me. 

Well, let them seize on all they can; — 

One treasure still is mine, — 
A heart that loves to think on thee, 

And feels the worth of thine. 



3Q0 



The Narrow Way 



10 



The Narrow Way 

BELIEVE not those who say 
The upward path is smooth, 
Lest thou shouldst stumble in the way, 
And faint before the truth. 

It is the only road 

Unto the realms of joy; 
But he who seeks that blest abode 
Must all his powers employ. 

Bright hopes and pure delight 
Upon his course may beam. 
And there, amid the sternest heights, 
The sweetest flowerets gleam. 

On all her breezes borne. 

Earth yields no scents like those; 
But he that dares not grasp the thorn 
Should never crave the rose. 

Arm — arm thee for the fight ! 
Cast useless loads away; 
Watch through the darkest hours of night, 
Toil through the hottest day. 

301 



Poems by Aitne Bronte 



Crush pride into the dust, 
Or thou must needs be slack; 
And trample down rebellious lust, 
Or it will hold thee back. 

Seek not thine honour here; 
Waive pleasures and renown; 
The world's dread scoff undaunted bear, 
And face its deadliest frown. 

To labour and to love, 
To pardon and endure. 
To lift thy heart to God above, 
And keep thy conscience pure; 

Be this thy constant aim. 
Thy hope, thy chief delight; 
What matter who should whisper blame, 
Or who should scorn or slight? 

What matter, if thy God approve, 
And if, within thy breast, 
Thou feel the comfort of His love. 
The earnest of His rest? 



302 



Self- Communion 



II 



Self- Communion 



K 



THE mist is resting on the hill ; 
The smoke is hanging in the air; 
The very clouds are standing still: 

A breathless calm broods everywhere. 
Thou pilgrim through this vale of tears, 

Thou, too, a little moment cease 
Thy anxious toil and fluttering fears. 
And rest thee, for a while, in peace." 



"I would, but Time keeps working still 
And moving on for good or ill : 

He will not rest nor stay. 
In pain or ease, in smiles or tears, 
He still keeps adding to my years 

And stealing life away. 
His footsteps in the ceaseless sound 

Of yonder clock I seem to hear, 
That through this stillness so profound 

Distinctly strikes the vacant ear. 
For ever striding on and on, 

He pauses not by night or day; 

303 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



And all my life will soon be gone 

As these past years have slipped away. 
He took my childhood long ago, 
And then my early youth ; and lo, 

He steals away my prime ! 
I cannot see how fast it goes, 
But well my inward spirit knows 
The wasting power of time." 

"Time steals thy moments, drinks thy 
breath. 

Changes and wastes thy mortal frame; 
But though he gives the clay to death. 

He cannot touch the inward flame. 
Nay, though he steals thy years away, 

Their memory is left thee still, 
And every month and every day 

Leaves some effect of good or ill. 
The wise will find in Memor^^'s store 
A help for that which lies before 

To guide their course aright; 
Then, hush thy plaints and calm thy fears; 
Look back on these departed years. 

And, say, what meets thy sight?" 

"I see, far back, a helpless child. 
Feeble and full of causeless fears, 

Simple and easily beguiled 
To credit all it hears. 

304 



Self- Comimmion 

More timid than the wild wood-dove, 

Yet trusting to another's care, 
And finding in protecting love 

Its only refuge from despair, — 
Its only balm for every woe. 
The only bliss its soul can know; — 

^till hiding in its breast. 
A tender heart too prone to weep, 
A love so earnest, strong, and deep 

It could not be exprest. 
Poor helpless thing! what can it do 

Life's stormy cares and toils among;— 
How tread this weary desert through 

That awes the brave and tires the 
strong ? 
Where shall it centre so much trust 

Where truth maintains so little sway, 
Where seeming fruit is bitter dust, 

And kisses oft to death betray? 
How oft must sin and falsehood grieve 
A heart so ready to believe, 

And willing to admire ! 
With strength so feeble, fears so strong, 
Amid this selfish bustling throng, 

How will it faint and tire! 
That tender love so warm and deep, 

How can it flourish here below? 
What bitter floods of tears must steep 

The stony soil where it would grow ! 

30 305 



Poems by Aniie Bronte 



O earth ! a rocky breast is thine — 

A hard soil and a cruel clime, 
Where tender plants must droop and pine, 

Or alter with transforming time. 
That soul, that clings to sympathy, 
As ivy clasps the forest tree, 

How can it stand alone? 
That heart so prone to overflow 
E'en at the thought of others' woe. 

How will it bear its own? 
How, if a sparrow's death can wring 

Such bitter tear-floods from the eye. 
Will it behold the suffering 

Of struggling, lost humanity? 
The torturing pain, the pining grief. 

The sin-degraded misery, 
The anguish that defies relief?" 



(< 



Look back again — What dost thou see?" 



"I see one kneeling on the sod, 

With infant hands upraised to Heaven,- 
— A young heart feeling after God, 

Oft baffled, never backward driven. 
Mistaken oft, and oft astray, 
It strives to find the narrow way. 

But gropes and toils alone: 
That inner life of strife and tears. 
Of kindling hopes and lowering fears 

To none but God is known. 
• 306 



Self' Cofmmmzon 

'Tis better thus; for man would scorn 
Those childish prayers, those artless cries, 

That darkling spirit tossed and torn, 
But God will not despise! 



" We may regret such waste of tears 

Such darkly toiling misery. 
Such 'wildering doubts and harrowing 
fears. 

Where joy and thankfulness should be; 
But wait, and Heaven will send relief. 

Let patience have her perfect work: 
Lo, strength and wisdom spring from grief, 

And joys behind afflictions lurk ! 
It asked for light, and it is heard ; 

God grants that struggling soul repose 
And, guided by His holy word. 

It wiser than its teachers grows. 
It gains the upward path at length, 
And passes on from strength to strength, 

Leaning on Heaven the while : 
Night's shades departing one by one, 
It sees at last the rising sun, 

And feels his cheering smile. 
In all its darkness and distress 

For Hght it sought, to God it cried; 
And through the pathless wilderness. 

He was its comfort and its guide.' 

307 



>» 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



"So was it, and so will it be: 

Thy God will guide and strengthen thee; 

His goodness cannot fail. 
The sun that on thy morning rose 
Will light thee to the evening's close, 

Whatever storms assail." 

"God alters not; but Time on me 

A wide and wondrous change has wrought : 
And in these parted years I see 

Cause for grave care and saddening thought. 
I see that time, and toil, and truth, 

An inward hardness can impart, — 
Can freeze the generous blood of youth, 

And steel full fast the tender heart." 

"Bless God for that divine decree! — 
That hardness comes with misery, 

And suffering deadens pain; 
That at the frequent sight of woe 
E'en Pity's tears forget to flow, 

If reason still remain ! 
Reason, with conscience by her side, 

But gathers strength from toil and truth ; 
And she will prove a surer guide 

Than those sweet instincts of our youth. 
Thou that hast known such anguish sore 

In weeping where thou couldst not bless, 

' 308 



Self- Communion 

Canst thou that softness so deplore — 

That suffering, shrinking tenderness? 
Thou that hast felt what cankering care 
A loving heart is doomed to bear, 

Say, how canst thou regret 
That fires unfed must fall away, 
Long droughts can dry the softest clay, 
Aj^id cold will cold beget?" 

"Nay, but 'tis hard to feel that chill 

Come creeping o'er the shuddering heart. 
Love may be full of pain, but still, 

'Tis sad to see it so depart, — 
To watch that fire whose genial glow 

Was formed to comfort and to cheer. 
For want of fuel, fading so. 

Sinking to embers dull and drear, — 
To see the soft soil turned to stone 

For lack of kindly showers, — 
To see those yearnings of the breast, 
Pining to bless and to be blessed, 
Drop withered, frozen one by one. 
Till, centred in itself alone. 

It wastes its blighted powers. 

"Oh, I have known a wondrous joy 
In early friendship's pure delight, — 

A genial bliss that could not cloy — 
My sun by day, my moon by night. 

309 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



Absence, indeed, was sore distress, 

And thought of death was anguish keen, 
And there was cruel bitterness 

When jarring discords rose between; 
And sometimes it was grief to know 

My fondness was but half returned. 
But this was nothing to the woe 

With which another truth was learned: — 
That I must check, or nurse apart. 
Full many an impulse of the heart 

And many a darling thought: 
What my soul worshipped, sought, and 

prized. 
Were slighted, questioned, or despised; — 

This pained me more than aught. 
And as my love the warmer glowed 

The deeper would that anguish sink, 
That this dark stream between us flowed, 

Though both stood bending o'er its brink; 
Until, at last, I learned to bear 

A colder heart within my breast ; 
To share such thoughts as I could share, 

And calmly keep the rest. 
I saw that they were sundered now. 

The trees that at the root were one: 
They yet might mingle leaf and bough, 

But still the stems must stand alone. 
O love is sweet of every kind! 

'Tis sweet the helpless to befriend, 

310 



Self- Cofiimunion 

To watch the young unfolding mind, 

To guide, to shelter, and defend: 
To lavish tender toil and care, 

And ask for nothing back again, 
But that our smiles a blessing bear 

And all our toil be not in vain. 
And sweeter far than words can tell 
Their love whose ardent bosoms swell 

With thoughts they need not hide; 
Where fortune frowns not on their joy, 
And Prudence seeks not to destroy, 

Nor Reason to deride. 

" Whose love ma}^ freely gush and flow, 

Unchecked, unchilled by doubt or fear. 
For in their inmost hearts they know 

It is not vainly nourished there. 
They know that in a kindred breast 

Their long desires have found a home, 
Where heart and soul may kindly rest, 

Weary and lorn no more to roam. 
Their dreams of bliss were not in vain. 
As they love they are loved again, 

And they can bless as they are blessed. 

" O vainly might I seek to show 
The joys from happy love that flow! 
The warmest words are all too cold 
The secret transports to unfold 

311 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



Of simplest word or softest sigh, 
Or from the glancing of an eye 

To say what rapture beams; 
One look that bids our fears depart, 
And well assures the trusting heart. 
It beats not in the world alone — 
Such speechless rapture I have known, 

But only in my dreams. 

" My life has been a morning sky 

Where Hope her rainbow glories cast 
O'er kindling vapours far and nigh : 

And, if the colours faded fast. 
Ere one bright hue had died away 

Another o'er its ashes gleamed; 
And if the lower clouds were grey. 

The mists above more brightly beamed. 
But not for long; — at length behold. 

Those tints less warm, less radiant grew; 
Till but one streak of paly gold 

Glimmered through clouds of saddening 
hue. 
And I am calmly waiting, now, 

To see that also pass away. 
And leave, above the dark hill's brow, 

A ray less arch of sombre grey." 



(( 



So must it fare with all thv race 
Who seek in earthl}^ things their joy: 

312 



Self-Communion 

So fading hopes lost hopes shall chase, 

Till Disappointment all destroy. 
But they that fix their hopes on high 
Shall, in the blue-refulgent sk}^ 

The sun's transcendent light. 
Behold a purer, deeper glow 
Than these uncertain gleams can show. 

However fair or bright. 
O weak of heart! why thus deplore 

That Truth will Fancy's dreams 
destroy? 
Did I not tell thee, years before. 

Life was for labour, not for joy? 
Cease, selfish spirit, to repine; 

O'er thine own ills no longer grieve; 
Lo, there are sufferings worse than thine. 

Which thou mayst labour to relieve. 
If Time indeed too swiftly flies. 
Gird on thine armour, haste, arise. 

For thou hast much to do ; — 
To lighten woe, to trample sin. 
And foes without and foes within 

To combat and subdue. 
Earth hath too much of sin and pain: 
The bitter cup — the binding chain 

Dost thou indeed lament? 
Let not thy weary spirit sink ; 
But strive — not by one drop or link 

The evil to augment. 

313 



Poems by Amie Bronte 



Strive rather thou, by peace and joy, 
The bitter poison to destroy, 

The tyrant chain to break. 
strive! and if thy strength be small, 
Strive yet the more, and spend it all 

For Love and Wisdom's sake!" 

"0 1 have striven both hard and long 
But many are my foes and strong. 
My gains are light — my progress slow; 
For hard's the way I have to go, 
And my worst enemies, I know, 

Are these within my breast; 
And it is hard to toil for aye, — 
Through sultry noon and twilight grey 

To toil and never rest." 

"There is a rest beyond the grave, 
A lasting rest from pain and sin. 

Where dwell the faithful and the brave; 
But they must strive who seek to win." 

"Show me that rest — I ask no more. 
Oh, drive these misty doubts away; 
And let me see that sunny shore, 

However far away ! 
However wide this rolling sea, 
However wild my passage be, 
Howe'er my bark be tempest-tost, 

May it but reach that haven fair, 

3H 



Self- Coimmmion 

May I but land and wander there, 

With those that I have loved and lost: 
With such a glorious hope in view, 
I'll gladly toil and suffer too. 
Rest without toil I would not ask; 
I would not shun the hardest task: 
Toil is my glory — Grief my gain. 
If God's approval they obtain. 
Could I but hear my Saviour say, — 

'I know thy patience and thy love; 
How thou hast held the narrow way, 

For my sake laboured night and day. 
And watched, and striven with them that 
strove ; 

And still hast borne, and didst not faint,' — 
Oh, this would be reward indeed!" 

"Press forward, then, without complaint; 
Labour and love — and such shall be thy meed." 

April 17, 1848. 



315 



Poems by Amie Bronte 



12 



FAREWELL to thee! but not farewell 
To all my fondest thoughts of thee: 
Within my heart they still shall dwell ; 
And they shall cheer and comfort me. 

beautiful, and full of grace! 

If thou hadst never met mine eye, 

1 had not dreamed a living face 

Could fancied charms so far outvie. 

If I may ne'er behold again 

That form and face so dear to me, 

Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain 
Preserve for aye their memory. 

That voice, the magic of whose tone 
Can wake an echo in my breast, 

Creating feelings that, alone, 

Can make my tranced spirit blest. 

That laughing eye, whose sunny beam 
My memory would not cherish less; — 

And oh, that smile! whose joyous gleam 
No mortal language can express. 

316 



Farewell to Thee! 



Adieu ! but let me cherish still 

The hope with which I cannot part. 

Contempt may wound, and coldness chill, 
But still it lingers in my heart. 

And who can tell but Heaven, at last, 
]\^ay answer all my thousand prayers, 

And bid the future pay the past 

With joy for anguish, smiles for tears. 



317 



Poems by Anne Bronfe 



13 

A Reminiscence 

YES, thou art gone! and never more 
Thy sunny smile shall gladden me; 
But I may pass the old church door, 
And pace the floor that covers thee, 

May stand upon the cold, damp stone, 
And think that, frozen, lies below 

The lightest heart that I have known. 
The kindest I shall ever know. 

Yet, though I cannot see thee more, 
'Tis still a comfort to have seen; 

And though thy transient life is o'er, 
'Tis sweet to think that thou hast been; 

To think a soul so near divine, 

Within a form so angel fair, 
United to a heart like thine. 

Has gladdened once our humble sphere. 



J18 



The Arbour 



14 

The Arbour 

I'LL rest me in this sheltered bower, 
And look upon the clear blue sky 
That smiles upon me through the trees, 
Which stand so thickly clustering by; 

And view their green and glossy leaves. 
All glistening in the sunshine fair; 

And list the rustling of their boughs. 
So softly whispering through the air. 

And while my ear drinks in the sound, 
My winged soul shall fly away; 

Reviewing long departed years 

As one mild, beaming, autumn day; 

And soaring on to future scenes. 

Like hills and woods, and valleys green, 

All basking in the summer's sun, 
But distant still, and dimly seen. 

Oh, list! 'tis summer's very breath 

That gently shakes the rustling trees — 

But look ! the snow is on the ground — 
How can I think of scenes like these? 

319 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



'Tis but the frost that clears the air, 
And gives the sky that lovely blue; 

They're smiling in a winter's sun, 
Those evergreens of sombre hue. 

x^nd winter's chill is on my heart — 
How can I dream of future bliss? 

How can my spirit soar away, 
Confined by such a chain as this? 



320 



Home 



15 

Home 

HOW brightly glistening in the sun 
The woodland ivy plays ! 
While yonder beeches from their barks 
Reflect his silver rays. 

That sun surveys a lovely scene 

From softly smiling skies; 
And wildly through unnumbered trees 

The wind of winter sighs : 

Now loud, it thunders o'er my head, 

And now in distance dies. 
But give me back my barren hills, 

Where colder breezes rise; 

Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees 
Can yield an answering swell, 

But where a wilderness of heath 
Returns the sound as well. 

For yonder garden, fair and wide, 

With groves of evergreen, 
Long winding walks, and borders trim, 

And velvet lawns between — 
21 321 



Poems Oy Anne Bronte 



Restore to me that little spot, 

With grey walls compassed round, 

Where knotted grass neglected lies, 
And weeds usurp the ground. 

Though all around this mansion high 

Invites the foot to roam, 
And though its halls are fair within — 

Oh, give me back my Home! 



1 



322 



The Penitent 



i6 

The Penitent 

1 MOURN with thee, and yet rejoice 
That thou shouldst vSorrow so; 
With angel choirs I join my voice 
To bless the sinner's woe. 

Though friends and kindred turn away, 
And laugh thy grief to scorn; 

I hear the great Redeemer say, 
"Blessed are ye that mourn. 



>> 



Hold on thy course, nor deem it strange 
That earthly cords are riven : 

Man may lament the wondrous change, 
But "there is joy in heaven!" 



323 



V 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



17 

7/ This Be All 

O GOD ! if this indeed be all 
That Life can show to me; 
If on my aching brow may fall 
No freshening dew from Thee; 

If with no brighter light than this 
The lamp of hope may glow, 

And I may only dream of bliss, 
And wake to weary woe ; 

If friendship's solace must decay. 

When other joys are gone. 
And love must keep so far away, 

While I go wandering on, — 

Wandering and toiling without gain, 

The slave of others' will, 
With constant care and frequent pain, 

Despised, forgotten still; 

Grieving to look on vice and sin, 

Yet powerless to quell 
The silent current from within, 

The outward torrent's swell; 

324 



If This Be All 

While all the good I would impart, 
The feelings I would share, 

Are driven backward to my heart, 
And turned to wormwood there; 

If clouds must ever keep from sight 

The glories of the Sun, 
And I must suffer Winter's blight, 

Ere Summer is begun: 

If Life must be so full of care — 
Then call me soon to thee; 

Or give me strength enough to bear 
My load of misery! 



325 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



i8 



Memory 

BRIGHTLY the sun of summer shone 
Green fields and waving woods upon, 
And soft winds wandered by; 
Above, a sky of purest blue, 
Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue, 
Allured the gazer's eye. 

But what were all these charms to me, 
When one sweet breath of memory 

Came gently wafting b}^? 
I closed my eyes against the day. 
And called my willing soul away. 

From earth, and air, and sky; 

That I might simply fancy there 
One little flower — a primrose fair, 

Just opening into sight ; 
As in the days of infancy, 
An opening primrose seemed to me 

A source of strange delight. 

Sweet Memory! ever smile on me; 
Nature's chief beauties spring from thee; 
Oh, still thy tribute bring! 

326 



Memory 

Still make the golden crocus shine 
Among the flowers the most divine, 
The glory of the spring. 

Still in the wallflower's fragrance dwell; 
And hover round the slight blue-bell, 

My childhood's darling flower. 
Smile on the little daisy still, 
The buttercup's bright goblet fill 

With all thy former power. 

For ever hang thy dreamy spell 
Round mountain star and heather bell, 

And do not pass away 
From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow. 
And whisper when the wild winds blow. 

Or rippling waters play. 



327 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



19 

To Cowper 

SWEET are thy strains, Celestial Bard; 
And oft, in childhood's years, 
I've read them o'er and o'er again, 
With floods of silent tears. 

The language of my inmost heart 

I traced in every line ; 
My sins, my sorrows, hopes, and fears, 

Were there — and onlv mine. 

All for myself the sigh would swell, 

The tear of anguish start; 
I little knew what wilder woe 

Had filled the Poet's heart. 

I did not know the nights of gloom. 

The days of misery: 
The long, long years of dark despair, 

That crushed and tortured thee. 

But they are gone ; from earth at length 

Thy gentle soul is pass'd, 
And in the bosom of its God 

Has found its home at last. 

328 



To Cowper 

It must be so, if God is love, 
And answers fervent prayer; 

Then surely thou shalt dwell on high, 
And I may meet thee there. 

Is He the source of every good, 
. The spring of purity? 
Then in thine hours of deepest woe, 
Thy God was still with thee. 

How else, when every hope was fled, 
Couldst thou so fondly cling 

To holy things and holy men? 
And how so sweetly sing 

Of things that God alone could teach? 

And whence that purity. 
That hatred of all sinful ways — 

That gentle charity? 

Are these the symptoms of a heart 
Of heavenly grace bereft— 

For ever banished from its God, 
To Satan's fury left? 

Yet, should thy darkest fears be true. 

If Heaven be so severe. 
That such a soul as thine is lost, — 

Oh! how shall I appear? 

329 



Poems by Amte Bronte 



20 



I 

1 



Fast Days 



"T^IS strange to think there was a time 
1 When mirth was not an empty name, 

When laughter really cheered the heart, 
x\nd. frequent smiles unbidden came, 

And tears of grief would only flow 

In S3^mpathy for others' woe; 

When speech expressed the inward thought, 
And heart to kindred heart was bare, 

And summer days were far too short 
For all the pleasures crowded there; 

And silence, solitude, and rest, — 

Now welcome to the weary breast — 

Were all unprized, uncourted then; 

And all the joy one spirit showed. 
The other deeply felt again ; 

And friendship like a river flowed, 
Constant and strong its silent course, 
For nought withstood its gentle force: 

When night, the holy time of peace. 
Was dreaded as the parting hour; 

330 



Past Days 

When speech and mirth at once must cease, 

And silence must resume her power; 
Though ever free from pains and woes, 
She only brought us calm repose. 

And when the blessed dawn again 

Brought daylight to the blushing skies, 

We woke, and not reluctant then, 
To jo34ess labour did we rise; 

But full of hope, and glad and gay. 

We welcomed the returning day. 



331 



Poems by Anne Bronte 




21 

Consolation ' 

THOUGH bleak these woods, and damp the 
ground 
With fallen leaves so thickly strown, 
And cold the wind that wanders round 
With wild and melancholy moan; 

There is a friendly roof, I know, 

Might shield me from the wintry blast; 

There is a fire, whose ruddy glow 

Will cheer me for my wanderings past. 

And so, though still, where'er I go, 
Cold stranger-glances meet my eye; 

Though, when my spirit sinks in woe, 
Unheeded swells the unbidden sigh; 

^ This poem, like most of its predecessors, was first 

printed in the volume of poems published in 1846. It was 

afterwards included by Charlotte Bronte in her Selection 

from the Poems of Acton Bell, under the title of Lines 

Written from Home, with this note: 

"My sister Anne had to taste the cup of life as it is mixed 

for the class termed 'Governesses.' 
The following are some of the thoughts that now and then 

solace a governess." 



Consolation 

Though solitude, endured too long, 
Bids youthful joys too soon decay, 

Makes mirth a stranger to my tongue, 
And overclouds my noon of day; 

When kindly thoughts that would have way, 
Flow back discouraged to m}^ breast; 

I know there is, though far away, 

A home where heart and soul may rest. 

Warm hands are there, that, clasped in mine, 
The warmer heart will not belie; 

While mirth, and truth, and friendship shine 
In smiling lip and earnest eye. 

The Ice that gathers round my heart 

May there be thawed; and sweetly, then, 

The joys of youth, that now depart. 
Will come to cheer my soul again. 

Though far I roam, that thought shall be 
My hope, my comfort, everywhere; 

While such a home remains to me. 
My heart shall never know despair! 



333 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



22 



Appeal 

OH, I am very weary, 
Though tears no longer flow; 
My eyes are tired of weeping, 
My heart is sick of woe; 

My Hfe is very lonely. 

My days pass heavily, 
I'm weary of repining; 

Wilt thou not come to me? 

Oh, didst thou know my longings 
For thee, from day to day, 

My hopes, so often blighted. 
Thou wouldst not thus delay ! 



334 



The Shtdenf s Serenade 



23 

The Student' s Serenade 

I HAVE slept upon my couch, 
But my spirit did not rest, 
For the labours of the day 
Yet my weary soul opprest; 

And before my dreaming eyes 
Still the learned volumes lay, 

And I could not close their leaves, 
And I could not turn away. 

But I oped my e3^es at last, 
And I heard a muffled sound; 

'Twas the night-breeze, come to say 
That the snow was on the ground. 

Then I knew that there was rest 
On the mountain's bosom free; 

So I left my fevered couch. 
And I flew to waken thee ! 

I have flown to waken thee — 
For, if thou wilt not arise, 

Then my soul can drink no peace 
From these holy moonlight skies. 

335 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



And this waste of virgin snow 
To my sight will not be fair, 

Unless thou wilt smiling come, 
Love, to wander with me there. 

Then, awake! Maria, wake! 

For, if thou couldst only know 
How the quiet moonlight sleeps 

On this wilderness of snow. 

And the groves of ancient trees. 
In their snowy garb arrayed, 

Till they stretch into the gloom 
Of the distant valley's shade; 

I know thou wouldst rejoice 

To inhale this bracing air ; 
Thou wouldst break thy sweetest sleep 

To behold a scene so fair. 

O'er these wintry wilds, alone, 
Thou wouldst joy to wander free; 

And it will not please thee less. 

Though that bliss be shared with me. 



336 



The Captive Dove 



The Captive Dove 

POOR restless dove, I pity thee; 
And when I hear thy plaintive moan, 
I mourn for thy captivity, 
And in thy woes forget mine own. 

To see thee stand prepared to fly. 
And flap those useless wings of thine, 

And gaze into the distant sky, 

Would melt a harder heart than mine. 

In vain — in vain ! Thou canst not rise : 
Thy prison roof confines thee there; 

Its slender wires delude thine eyes, 
And quench thy longings with despair. 

Oh, thou wert made to wander free 
In sunny mead and shady grove, 

And far beyond the rolling sea. 
In distant climes, at will to rove! 

Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate 
Thy little drooping heart to cheer, 

And share with thee thy captive state, 
Thou couldst be happy even there. . 

337 



Poems by Ajine Bronte 



o' 



Yes, even there, if, listening by, 
One faithful dear companion stood. 

While gazing on her full bright eye, 
Thou might 'st forget thy native wood. 

But thou, poor solitary dove. 

Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan; 
The heart that Nature formed to love 

Must pine, neglected, and alone. 



338 



Self- Congratulation 



25 

Selj -Congratulation 

ELLEN, you were thoughtless once 
Of beauty or of grace, 
Simple and homely in attire, 
Careless of form and face. 
Then whence this change? and wherefore now 

So often smooth your hair? 
And wherefore deck your youthful form 
With such unwearied care? 

"Tell us, and cease to tire our ears 

With that familiar strain; 
Why will you pla}^ those simple tunes 

So often o'er again?" 
"Indeed, dear friends, I can but say 

That childhood's thoughts are gone; 
Each year its own new feelings brings, 

And years move swiftly on: 

"And for these little simple airs — 

I love to play them o'er 
So much — I dare not promise, now, 

To play them never more." 

339 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



I answered — and it was enough ; 

They turned them to depart ; 
They could not read my secret thoughts, 

Nor see my throbbing heart. 



I've noticed many a youthful form, 

Upon whose changeful face 
The inmost workings of the soul 

The gazer well might trace; 
The speaking eye, the changing lip, 

The ready blushing cheek. 
The smiling, or beclouded brow, 

Their different feelings speak. 



But, thank God! you might gaze on mine 

For hours, and never know 
The secret changes of my soul 

From joy to keenest woe. 
Last night, as we sat round the fire, 

Conversing merrily. 
We heard, without, approaching steps 

Of one well known to me ! 



There was no trembling in my voice, 
No blush upon my cheek. 

No lustrous sparkle in my eyes, 
Of hope, or joy, to speak; 

340 



Self' Coiigratidation 



But, oh! my spirit burned within, 
My heart beat full and fast! 

He came not nigh — he went away- 
And then my joy was past. 



And yet my comrades marked it not: 
• M}^ voice was still the same; 
Thc}^ saw me smile, and o'er my face 

No signs of sadness came. 
They little knew my hidden thoughts; 

And they will never know 
The aching anguish of my heart, 

The bitter burning woe! 



341 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



26 

Fluctuations 

WHAT though the Sun had left my sky; 
To save me from despair 
The blessed moon arose on high, 
And shone serenely there. 

I watched her, with a tearful gaze, 

Rise slowly o'er the hill, 
While through the dim horizon's haze 

Her light gleamed faint and chill. 

I thought such wan and lifeless beams 

Could ne'er my heart repay 
For the bright sun's most transient gleams 

That cheered me through the day: 

But, as above that mist's control 

She rose, and brighter shone, 
I felt her light upon my soul ; 

But now — that light is gone ! 

Thick vapours snatched her from my sight. 

And I was darkling left. 
All in the cold and gloomy night, 

Of light and hope bereft: 

342 



Fhictuaiions 

Until, methought, a little star 
Shone forth with trembling ray, 

To cheer me with its light afar — 
But that, too, passed awa}^ 

Anon, an earthly meteor blazed 

The gloomy darkness through; 
J. smiled, yet trembled while I gazed — 
But that soon vanished too! 

And darker, drearier fell the night 

Upon my spirit then; — 
But what is that faint struggling light ? 

Is it the Moon again? 

Kind Heaven ! increase that silvery gleam, 

And bid these clouds depart, 
And let her soft celestial beam 

Restore my fainting heart ! 



343 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



2^ 

Despondency 

1HAVE gone backward in the work; 
The labour has not sped; 
Drowsy and dark my spirit lies, 
Heavy and dull as lead. 

How can I rouse my sinking soul 

From such a lethargy? 
How can I break these iron chains 

And set my spirit free? 

There have been times when I have mourned 

In anguish o'er the past, 
And raised my suppliant hands on high, 

While tears fell thick and fast; 

And prayed to have my sins forgiven, 

With such a fervent zeal, 
An earnest grief, a strong desire, 

As now I cannot feel. 

« * « 



344 



A Prayer 



28 



A Prayer 

MY God, — oh, let me call Thee mine, 
Weak, wretched simier though I be,- 
My trembling soul would fain be Thine; 
My feeble faith still clings to Thee. 

Not only for the Past I grieve, 
The Future fills me with dismay; 

Unless Thou hasten to relieve, 
Thy suppliant is a castaway. 

I cannot say my faith is strong, 
I dare not hope my love is great; 

But strength and love to Thee belong; 
Oh, do not leave me desolate! 

I know I owe my all to Thee; 

Oh, take the heart I cannot give! 
Do Thou my strength — my Saviour be, 

And make me to Thy glory live. 



345 



Poems by Ajuie Bronte 



29 

In Memory of a Happy Day in February 

* * * 

I WAS alone, for those I loved 
Were far away from me; 
The sun shone on the withered grass, 
The wind blew fresh and free. 

Was it the smile of early spring 

That made my bosom glow? 
'Twas sweet; but neither sun nor wind 

Could cheer my spirit so. 

Was it some feeling of delight, 

All vague and undefined? 
No; 'twas a rapture deep and strong, 

Expanding in the mind. 

Was it a sanguine view of life, 

And all its transient bliss, 
A hope of bright prosperity? 

Oh, no! it was not this. 

346 



? 



In Meniory of a Happy Day 



It was a glimpse of truth divine 

Unto my spirit given, 
Illumined by a ray of light 

That shone direct from heaven. 



* 



347 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



30 

Confidence 

OPPRESSED with sin and woe, 
A burdened heart I bear, 
Opposed by many a mighty foe; 
But I will not despair. 

With this polluted heart, 
I dare to come to Thee, 
Holy and mighty as Thou art, 
For Thou wilt pardon me. 

I feel that I am weak, 
And prone to every sin ; 
But Thou who giv'st to those who seek. 
Wilt give me strength within. 

Far as this earth may be 
From yonder starry skies; 
Remoter still am I from Thee: 
Yet Thou wilt not despise. 

I need not fear my foes, 
I need not yield to care; 
I need not sink beneath my woes, 
For Thou wilt answer prayer. 
348 



Confidence 

In my Redeemer's name, 
I give myself to Thee; 
And, all unworthy as I am, 
My God will cherish me. 



349 



Poems by Anne Bronte 



31 

Domestic Peace 

WHY should such gloomy silence reign, 
And why is all the house so drear, 
When neither danger, sickness, pain. 

Nor death, nor want, have entered here? 

We are as many as we were 

That other night, when all were gay 

And full of hope, and free from care; 
Yet is there something gone away. 

The moon without, as pure and calm, 
Is shining as that night she shone; 

But now, to us, she brings no balm. 
For something from our hearts is gone. 

Something whose absence leaves a void— 
A cheerless want in every heart ; 

Each feels the bliss of all destroyed. 

And mourns the change— but each apart. 

The fire is burning in the grate 

As redly as it used to burn ; 
But still the heart is desolate, 

Till mirth, and love, and peace return. 

359. 



Domestic Peace 

'Twas peace that flowed from heart to heart, 
With looks and smiles that spoke of heaven, 

And gave us language to impart 

The blissful thoughts itself had given. 

Domestic peace! best joy of earth, 
When shall we all thy value learn? 

White angel, to our sorrowing hearth, 
Return — oh, graciously return! 



351 



Poems by Amie Bronte 



1 



32 

The Three Guides 

SPIRIT of Earth! thy hand is chill: 
I've felt its icy clasp; 
And, shuddering, I remember still 

That stony-hearted grasp. 
Thine eye bids love and joy depart: 

Oh, turn its gaze from me! 
It presses down my shrinking heart; 
I will not walk with thee! 

Dull is thine ear, unheard by thee 

The still, small voice of Heaven; 
Thine eyes are dim and cannot see 

The helps that God has given. 
There is a bridge o'er every flood 

Which thou canst not perceive; 
A path through every tangled wood, 

But thou wilt not believe. 

Striving to make thy way by force. 

Toil-spent and bramble-torn, 
Thou'lt fell the tree that checks thy course, 

And burst through brier and thorn: 

352 



The Three Guides 



And, pausing by the river's side, 
Poor reasoner ! thou wilt deem, 

By casting pebbles in its tide, 
To cross the swelling stream. 



-Spirit of Pride! thy wings are strong, 

Thine eyes like Hghtning shine; 
Ecstatic joys to thee belong, 

And powers almost divine. 
But 'tis a false, destructive blaze 

Within those eyes I see; 
Turn hence their fascinating gaze; 

I will not follow thee. 

« :ii * 

Yes, I have seen thy votaries oft, 

Upheld by thee their guide. 
In strength and courage mount aloft 

The steepy mountain-side; 
I've seen them stand against the sky, 

And gazing from below, 
Beheld thy Hghtning in their eye. 

Thy triumph on their brow. 

Oh, I have felt what glory then. 

What transport must be theirs! 
So far above their fellow-men, 
Above their toils and cares ; 
.3 353 



'Poems hv Anne Bronte 



Inhaling Nature's purest breath, 

Her riches round them spread, 
The wide expanse of earth beneath, 

Heaven's glories overhead! 

* * * 

Where is their glory, where the pride 

That swelled their hearts before? 
Where now the courage that defied 

The mightiest tempest's roar? 
What shall they do when night grows black, 

When angry storms arise? 
Who now will lead them to the track 

Thou taught 'st them to despise? 

* * * 

Day does not always mark our way, 

Night's shadows oft appal, 
But lead me, and I cannot stray, — 

Hold me, I shall not fall; 
Sustain me, I shall never faint. 

How rough soe'er may be 
My upward road, — nor moan, nor plaint 

Shall mar my trust in thee. 

* * * 

Deserts beyond lie bleak and bare. 
And keen winds round us blow; 

But if thy hand conducts me there, 
The way is right, I know. 

354 



The Three Guides 



I have no wish to turn away; 

My spirit does not quail, — 
How can it while I hear thee say, 

"Press forward and prevail!" 



355 



Poems by Ajiite Bronte 



33 

THERE let thy bleeding branch atone 
For every torturing tear. 
Shall my young sins, my sins alone, 
Be everlasting here? 

Who bade thee keep that carved name 

A pledge for memory? 
As if oblivion ever came 

To breathe its bliss on me; 

As if through all the 'wildering maze 

Of mad hours left behind 
I once forgot the early days 

That thou wouldst call to mind! 



356 



Fragment 



34 

Fragment * 

YES, I will take a cheerful tone 
And feign to share their heartless glee ; 
But I would rather weep alone 
Than laugh amid their revelry. 

January 26, 1849. 



357 



Poems by Anne Bronte 




35 

Last Lhies^ 

1 HOPED, that with the brave and strong, 
My portioned task might lie; 
To toil amid the busy throng, 
With purpose pure and high. 

But God has fixed another part, 

And He has fixed it well ; 
I said so with my bleeding heart, 

When first the ansfuish fell. 



'^to' 



* A dreadful darkness closes in 

On my bewildered mind; 

O let me suffer and not sin, 

Be tortured yet resigned. 

* Shall I with joy thy blessings share 

And not endure their loss, 
Or hope the martyr's crown to wear 
And cast away the cross? 

' "I have given the last memento of my sister Emily; 
this is the last of my sister Anne. — C. B." 



Last Lines 

Thou, God, hast taken our deHght, 

Our treasured hope away: 
Thou bid'st us now weep through the night 

And sorrow through the day. 

These weary hours will not be lost, 

These days of misery, 
These nights of darkness, anguish- tost, 

Can I but turn to Thee: 

With secret labour to sustain 
In humble patience every blow; 

To gather fortitude from pain, 
And hope and holiness from woe. 

Thus let me serve Thee from my heart, 
Whate'er may be my written fate: 

Whether thus early to depart. 
Or yet a while to wait. 

If Thou shouldst bring me back to life. 

More humbled I should be; 
More wise, more strengthened for the strife. 

More apt to lean on Thee. 

Should death be standing at the gate, 

Thus should I keep my vow: 
But, Lord! whatever be my fate, 

Oh, let me serve Thee now! 

"These lines written, the desk was closed, the pen laid 
aside — for ever. — C. B." 

359 



POEMS BY 
BRANWELL BRONTE 



361 



So Where He Reigns 



SO where He reigns in glory bright, 
Above those starry skies of night, 
Amid His Paradise of light, 
Oh, why may I not be? 

Oft when awake on Christmas morn, 
In sleepless twilight laid forlorn. 
Strange thoughts have o'er my mind been borne, 
How He has died for me ; 

And oft, within my chamber lying, 
Have I awaked myself with crying 
From dreams, where I beheld Him dying 
Upon the accursed Tree; 

And often has my mother said. 
While on her lap I laid my head. 
She feared for Time I was not made, 
But for Eternity. 



363 



Poems by Branwell Bronte 



Sonnet 

ON THE CALLOUSNESS PRODUCED BY CARE 

WHY hold young eyes the fullest fount of 
tears ? 
And why do youthful hearts the oftenest sigh, 
When fancied friends forsake, or lovers fly. 
Or fancied woes and dangers wake their fears? 
Ah ! he who asks has known but spring- tide years. 
Or Time's rough voice had long since told him 
why! 

Increase of days increases misery; 
And misery brings selfishness, which sears 

The heart's first feelings: 'mid the battle's roar, 
In Death's dread grasp, the soldier's eyes are 
blind 

To comrades dying, and he whose hopes are 
o'er 

Turns coldest from the sufferings of mankind; 

A bleeding spirit oft delights in gore : 
A tortured heart oft makes a tyrant mind. 

Circa 1842. 



364 



Noali s PVarning 



Noah's Warnmg Over MethusaleK s Grave 

BROTHERS and men ! one moment stay 
Beside your latest patriarch's grave, 
While God's just vengeance yet delay, 
While God's blest mercy yet can save. 

Will you compel m}^ tongue to say, 
That underneath this nameless sod 

Your hands, with mine, have laid to-day 
The last on earth who walked with God? 



He's gone! — my Father — full of days, — 
From life which left no joy for him; 

Born in creation's earliest blaze; 
Dying — himself, its latest beam. 

But he is gone! and, oh, behold. 

Shown in his death, God's latest sign! 

Than which more plainly never told 
An Angel's presence His design. 

By it, the evening beam withdrawn 
Before a starless night descend; 

By it, the last blest spirit born 
From this beginning of an end; 

365 



Poems by Branwell Bronte 



By all the strife of civil war 

That beams within yon fated town; 

By all the heart's worst passions there, 
That call so loud for vengeance down; 

By that vast wall of cloudy gloom, 
Piled boding round the firmament; 

By all its presages of doom, 

Children of men — Repent ! Repent ! 

1842. 



366 



Our Lady of Grief 



Our Lady of Grief 

WHEN all our cheerful hours seem gone for 
^ ever, 
All lost that caused the body or the mind 
To nourish love or friendship for our kind, 
And Charon's boat, prepared, o'er Lethe's river 
Our souls to waft, and all our thoughts to sever 
From what was once life's Light; still there 

may be 
Some well-loved bosom to whose pillow we 
Could heartily our utter self deliver; 
And if, towards her grave — Death's dreary 
road — 
Our Darling's feet should tread, each step by 
her 
Would draw our own steps to the same abode. 

And make a festival of sepulture; 
For what gave joy, and joy to us had owed, 
Should death affright us from, when he would her 
restore ? 

1846, 



367 



Poems by Brmiwell Bronte 



The End of All 

IN that unpitying Winter's night, 
When my own wife — my Mary — died, 
I, by my fire's declining light, 
Sat comfortless, and silent sighed, 
While burst unchecked grief's bitter tide, 
As I, methought, when she was gone. 

Not hours, but years, like this must bide, 
And wake, and weep, and watch alone. 

All earthly hope had passed away, 

And each clock-stroke brought Death more 
nigh 
To the still chamber where she lay, 

With soul and body calmed to die; 

But mine was not her heavenward eye 
When hot tears scorched me, as her doom 

Made my sick heart throb heavily 
To give impatient anguish room. 

"Oh now, " methought, "a little while. 
And this great house will hold no more 

Her whose fond love the gloom could while 
Of many a long night gone before!" 

368 



The End of All 

Oh! all those happy hours were o'er 
When, seated by our own fireside, 

I'd smile to hear the wild winds roar, 
And turn to clasp my beauteous bride. 

I could not bear the thoughts which rose 

Of ^hat liad been, and what must be, 
And still the dark night would disclose 

Its sorrow-pictured prophecy; 

Still saw I — miserable me — 
Long, long nights else, in lonely gloom, 

With time-bleached locks and trembling 
knee — 
Walk aidless, hopeless, to my tomb. 

Still, still that tomb's eternal shade 

Oppressed my heart with sickening fear, 
When I could see its shadow spread 

Over each dreary future year. 

Whose vale of tears woke such despair 
That, with the sweat-drops on m}^ brow, 

I wildly raised my hands in prayer 
That Death would come and take me now; 

Then stopped to hear an answer given — 
So much had madness warped my mind — 

W^hen, sudden, through the midnight heaven, 
With long howl woke the Winter's wind ; 
And roused in me, though undefined, 
24 369 



Poems by Branwell Bronte 



A rushing thought of tumbling seas, 

Whose wild waves wandered unconfined, 
And, far-off surging, whispered, "Peace." 

I cannot speak the feeling strange. 

Which showed that vast December sea, 
Nor tell whence came that sudden change 

From aidless, hopeless misery; 

But somehow it revealed to me 
A life — when things I loved were gone — 

Whose solitary liberty 
Might suit me wandering tomb ward on. 

'Twas not that I forgot my love. 

That night departing evermore; 
'Twas hopeless grief for her that drove 

My soul from all it prized before; 

That misery called me to explore 
A new-born life, whose stony joy 

Might calm the pangs of sorrow o'er, 
Might shrine their memory, not destroy. 

I rose, and drew the curtains back 

To gaze upon the starless waste. 
And image on that midnight wrack 

The path on which I longed to haste. 

From storm to storm continual cast, 
And not one moment given to view ; 

O'er mind's wild winds the memories passed 
Of hearts I loved — of scenes I knew. 

370 



The End of All 

My mind anticipated all 

The things my eyes have seen since then; 
I heard the trumpet's battle-call, 

I rode o'er ranks of bleeding men, 

I swept the waves of Norway's main, 
I tracked the sands of Syria's shore, 

I fell that such strange strife and pain 
Might me from living death restore. 

Ambition I would make my bride, 

And joy to see her robed in red, 
For none through blood so wildly ride 

As those whose hearts before have bled; 

Yes, even though thou should'st long have laid, 
Pressed coldly down by churchyard clay, 

And though I knew thee thus decayed, 
I might smile grimly when away; 

Might give an opiate to my breast. 

Might dream: — but oh! that heart-wrung 
groan 
Forced from me with the thought confessed 

That all would go if she were gone ; 

I turned, and wept, and wandered on 
All restlessly — from room to room — 

To that still chamber, where alone 
A sick-light glimmered through the gloom. 

The all-unnoticed time flew o'er me. 
While my breast bent above her bed, 

371 



Poems by Branwell Bro7ite 



And that drear life which loomed before me 
Choked up my voice — bowed down my head. 
Sweet holy words to me she said, 

Of that bright heaven which shone so near, 
And oft and fervently she prayed 

That I might some time meet her there; 

But, soon enough, all words were over, 

When this world passed, and Paradise, 
Through deadly darkness, seemed to hover 

O'er her half-dull, half-brightening eyes; 
One last dear glance she gives her lover, 

One last embrace before she dies; 
And then, while he seems bowed above her, 

His Mary sees him from the skies. 

1847, 



372 



Percy Hall 



Percy Hall 
* * * 

THE westering sunbeams smiled on Percy 
Hall, 
And green leaves glittered o'er the ancient wall 
Where Mary sat, to feel the summer breeze, 
And hear its music mingling 'mid the trees. 
There she had rested in her quiet bower 
Through June's long afternoon, while hour on 

hour 
Stole, sweetly shining past her, till the shades. 
Scarce noticed, lengthened o'er the grassy glades; 
But yet she sat, as if she knew not how 
Her time wore on, with Heaven-directed brow, 
And eyes that only seemed awake, whene'er 
Her face was fanned by summer evening's air. 
All day her limbs a weariness would feel, 
As if a slumber o'er her frame would steal ; 
Nor could she wake her drowsy thoughts to care 
For day, or hour, or what she was, or where: 
Thus — lost in dreams, although debarred from 

sleep. 
While through her limbs a feverish heat would 

creep, 

373 



Poems by Branwell Bronte 



A weariness, a listlessness that hung 

About her vigour, and Life's powers unstrung — 

She did not feel the iron grip of pain, 

But thought felt irksome to her heated brain; 

Sometimes the stately woods would float before 

her, 
Commingled with the cloud-piles brightening 

o'er her, 
Then change to scenes for ever lost to view, 
Or mock with phantoms which she never knew: 
Sometimes her soul seemed brooding on to-day, 
And then it wildly wandered far away, 
Snatching short glimpses of her infancy, 
Or lost in day-dreams of what yet might be. 

Yet — through the labyrinth-like course of 

thought — 
Whate'er might be remembered or forgot, 
Howe'er diseased the dream might be, or dim. 
Still seemed the Future through each change to 

swim. 
All indefinable, but pointing on 
To what should welcome her when Life was 

gone; 
She felt as if — to all she knew so well — 
Its voice was whispering her to say "farewell"; 
Was bidding her forget her happy home; 
Was farther fleeting still — still beckoning her to 

come. - 

374 



Percy Hall 

She felt as one might feel who, laid at rest, 
With cold hands folded on a panting breast, 
Has just received a husband's last embrace, 
Has kissed a child, and turned a pallid face 
From this world — with its feelings all laid by — 
To one unknown, yet hovering — oh! how nigh! 



* 



1847. 



375 



Peoms by Brmiwell Bronie 



On Caroline 

THE light of thy ancestral hall, 
Thy Caroline, no longer smiles: 
She has changed her palace for a pall, 
Her garden walks for minster aisles: 
Eternal sleep has stilled her breast 

Where peace and pleasure made their shrine ; 
Her golden head has sunk to rest — 
Oh, would that rest made calmer mine ! 

To thee, while watching o'er the bed 

Where, mute and motionless, she lay. 
How slow the midnight moments sped ! 

How void of sunlight woke the day! 
Nor oped her eyes to morning's beam, 

Though all around thee woke to her; 
Nor broke thy raven-pinioned dream 

Of coffin, shroud, and sepulchre. 

Why beats thy heart when hers is still? 

Why linger'st thou when she is gone? 
Hop'st thou to light on good or ill? 

To find companionship alone? 

376 



On Caroline 

Perhaps thou think'st the church^^ard stone 
Can hide past smiles and bury sighs : 

That Memory, with her soul, has flown; 
That thou canst leave her where she lies? 

No! joy itself is but a shade. 

So well may its remembrance die ; 
But cares, life's conquerors, never fade, 

So strong is their reality ! 
Thou may'st forget the day which gave 

That child of beauty to thy side. 
But not the moment when the grave 

Took back again thy borrowed bride! 



377 



Poems by Branwell Bronte 



8 

Caroline 

I STOOPED to pluck a rose that grew 
Beside this window, waving then; 
But back my little hand withdrew, 

From some reproof of inward pain; 
For she who loved it was not there 

To check me with her dove-like eye, 
And something bid my heart forbear 

Her favourite rosebud to destroy. 
Was it that bell — that funeral bell, 

Sullenly sounding on the wind? 
Was it that melancholy knell 

Which first to sorrow woke my mind? 
I looked upon my mourning dress, 

Till my heart beat with childish fear. 
And frightened at my loneliness, 

I watched, some well-known sound to hear. 
But all without lay silent in 
• The sunny hush of afternoon, 
And only muffled steps within 

Passed slowly and sedately on. 



37S 



Caroline 

There lay she then, as now she lies — 

For not a limb has moved since then — 
In dreamless slumber closed, those eyes 

That never more might wake again. 
She lay, as I had seen her lie 

On many a happy night before, 
When I was humbly kneeling by — 

Whom she was teaching to adore: 
Oh, just as when by her I prayed. 

And she to heaven sent up my prayer, 
She lay with flower about her head — 

Though formal grave-clothes hid her hair! 
Still did her lips the smile retain 

Which parted them when hope was high, 
Still seemed her brow as smoothed from pain 

As when all thought she could not die. 
And, though her bed looked cramped and strange. 

Her too bright cheek all faded now, 
IMy young eyes scared}^ saw a change 

From hours when moonlight paled her brow. 
And yet I felt — and scarce could speak — 

A chilly face, a faltering breath, 
When my hand touched the marble cheek 

Which lay so passively beneath. 



And thus it brought me back the hours 
When we, at rest together, 

379 



Poems by Brartwell Bronte 



Used to lie listening to the showers 

Of wild December weather; 
Which, when, as oft, they woke in her 

The chords of inward thought, 
Would fill with pictures that wild air. 

From f ar-ofif memories brought ; 
So, while I lay, I heard again 

Her silver-sounding tongue. 
Rehearsing some remembered strain 

Of old times long agone! 
And, flashed across my spirit's sight. 

What she had often told me — 
When, laid awake on Christmas night. 

Her sheltering arms would fold me — 
About that midnight-seeming day. 

Whose gloom o'er Calvary thrown. 
Showed trembling Nature's deep dismay 

At what her sons had done. 



380 



INDEX TO TITLES OF POEMS 

PACE 

A Day Dream i Co 

A Death-Scene i(;o 

A Prater 345 

A Reminiscence 318 

Absent One, The IC5 

Anticipation 248 

Appeal 334 

Arbour, The 319 

At Castle Wood 1 56 

Bluebell, The (by Emily Bronte) 267 

Bluebell, The (by Anne Bronte) 283 

Bluebell, To a (by Emily Bronte) no 

Caged Bird, The 141 

Captive Dove, The 337 

Caroline 3/8 

Caroline, On ... 3/6 

Churchyard, The 3 

Claudia 113 

Confidence 34^ 

Consolation 33^ 

Cowper, To 328 

Day Dream, A 160 

Death 148 

Death -Scene, A 190 

Despondency 344 

Domestic Peace 35^ 

Douglas' Ride 93 

Dreams 290 

Dungeon, The 287 

Encouragement 1 86 

381 



Index to Titles of Poems 



PAGE 

End of All, The 368 

Evening Solace 46 

Eventide 57 

Faith and Despondency 192 

Fluctuations 342 

Fragment 357 

Frances 29 

Geraldine 145 

Grave in the Ocean 1 50 

Home 321 

Home-Sickness 4 

Honour's Martyr 194 

Hope 251 

How Clear She Shines! 254 

If This Be All 324 

Imagination, To 252 

In Memory of a Happy Day in February 346 

King Richard's Song 8 

Lady to her Guitar, The 179 

Last Lines 358 

Last Words 177 

Letter, The 33 

Lines Written at Thorp Green 286 

Lines Written from Home 332 

Love and Friendship 276 

Mementos 21 

Memory 326 

Moors, The 269 

My Comforter 262 

Narrow Way, The 301 

Never 131 

Night 289 

Night-Wind, The 272 

Noah's Warning over Methusaleh's Grave 365 

382 



Index to Titles of Poems 

PAGE 

Old Stoic, The 264 

On Caroline -,75 

On the Callousness Produced by Care (Sonnet) 364 

Our Lady of Grief 367 

Outcast Mother, The 180 

Parting e^ 

Past Days 330 

Penitent, The 32 3 

Perc}' Hall 373 

Philosopher, The 1 66 

Plead for Me 256 

Prayer, A 345 

Presentiment 37 

Prisoner, The 201 

Reason 17 

Remembrance 162 

Reminiscence, A 318 

Retirement 140 

Saul II 

Self-Communion 303 

Self-Congratulation 339 

Self-Interrogation 258 

Signal Light, The 199 

Song: King Julius left the south country 107 

Song, King Richard's 8 

Song: O between distress and pleasure 126 

Song: The linnet in the rocky dells 188 

Song: This shall be thy lullaby 92 

Song : We know where deepest lies the snow 292 

Sonnet : On the Callousness Produced by Care 364 

Stanzas to ■ 260 

Stars 245 

Student's Serenade, The 335 

Sympathy 255 

Teacher's Monologue, The 41 

The Absent One 105 

The Arbour 319 

The Bluebell (by Emily Bronte) 267 

The Bluebell (by Anne Bronte) 283 

383 



Index to Titles of Poems 



PAGE 

The Caged Bird 141 

The Captive Dove 337 

The Churchyard 3 

The Dungeon 287 

The End of All 368 

The Lady to her Guitar 179 

The Letter 33 

The Moors 269 

The Narrow Way 301 

The Night-Wind 272 

The Old wStoic 264 

The Outcast Mother 180 

The Penitent 323 

The Philosopher 166 

The Prisoner 201 

The Signal Light 199 

The Student's Serenade 335 ■ 

The Teacher's Monologue 41 

The Three Guides 352 

The Visionary 199 

The Wanderer from the Fold 1 82 

The Wood 24 

The Wounded Stag 6 

Three Guides, The 352 

To a Bluebell no 

To a Wreath of Snow 84 

To Cowper 328 

To Imagination 252 

Visionary, The 199 

Wanderer from the Fold, The 182 

Warning and Reply 184 

Watching and Wishing 48 

When Thou Sleepest 50 

Winter Stores 55 

Wood, The 24 

Wounded Stag, The 6 



384 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES 
OF POEMS 

" PAGE 

A fine and subtle spirit dwells 283 

A fresh wind waves the clustering roses 1 73 

A little while, a little while 265 

A thousand sounds of happiness 164 

Ah! why, because the dazzling sun 245 

Alas! the countless links are strong 258 

All day I've toiled, but not with pain 230 

All her tresses backward strayed 220 

All hushed and still within the house 234 

All in this house is mossing over 21 

Alone I sat; the summer day 75 

And like myself lone, wholly lone 141 

Awaken, o'er all my dear moorland 269 

Ay — there it is! it wakes to-night 274 

Believe not those who say 301 

Brightly the sun of summer shone 326 

Brothers and men! one moment stay 365 

But two miles more, and then we rest! 24 

Child of delight, with sun-bright hair 198 

Cold in the earth — and the deep snow piled above 

thee 162 

Come hither, child; who gifted thee Ii8 

Come walk with me; there's only thee, 170 

Companions all day long we've stood 138 

Death! that struck when I was most confiding 148 

Ellen, you were thoughtless once 339 

Enough of thought, philosopher! 166 

385 



Index to First Lines of Poems 



PAGE I 

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away 229 

Far away is the land of rest 78 

Farewell to thee! but not farewell 316 

For him who struck thy foreign string 179 

From our evening fireside now 105 

Go to the grave in youth's bare woe! 130 

Gods of the old mythology 16 

Harp of wild and dream-like strain 225 

He saw my heart's woe, discovered my soul's anguish 19 

He smiles and sings, though every air 134 

Heaven's glory shone where he was laid 130 

Heavy hangs the rain-drop 196 

Here am I standing lonely 'ncath 218 

Here with my knee upon thy stone 226 

Hope was but a timid friend 251 

How beautiful the earth is still 248 

How brightly glistening in the sun 321 

How clear she shines! How quietly 254 

How deep into the wilderness 102 

How Edenlike seem palace walls 217 

How few, of all the hearts that loved 182 

How long will you remain? The midnight hour. .. . 121 

How still, how happy! These are words 100 

I am the only being whose doom in 

I did not sleep; 'twas noon of day 113 

I die, but when the grave shall press ,86 

I do not see myself again 240 

I do not weep ; I would not weep 1 86 

I dreamt last night, and in that dream 293 

I gazed upon the cloudless moon 151 

I have gone backw^ard in the work 344 

I have slept upon my couch 335 

I hoped, that w^ith the brave and strong 358 

I knew not 'twas so dire a crime 177 

I know not how it falls on me 63 

I know our souls are all divine 152 

I love the silent hour of night 289 

I mourn with thee, and yet rejoice 323 

I saw thee, child, one summer day 70 

I see around me piteous tombstones grey 143 

386 



Index fo Fii'st Lines of Poems 



PAGE 

I stooped to pluck a rose that grew 378 

I was alone, for those I loved 346 

If grief for grief can touch thee 137 

I'll rest me in tliis sheltered bower 319 

I'm happiest now when most away 233 

In dungeons dark I cannot sing 227 

In summer's mellow midnight 272 

In that unpitying Winter's niglit 368 

In the dungeon-crypts idly did I stray 201 

In the earth, the earth, thou shalt be laid 184 

It is not at an hour like this 58 

It is too late to call thee now 135 

It was a little budding rose 219 

It was night, and on the mountains 172 

It was the autumn of the year 206 

I've been wandering in the greenwoods 129 

I've seen this dell in July's shine 180 

King Julius left the south countr\^ 107 

Lady, watch Apollo's journey 64 

Ladybird! lad^-bird! fly away home 214 

Look into thought and say what dost thou see 15 

Loud without the wind was roaring 66 

Love is like the wild rose-briar 276 

May flowers are opening, 103 

Mild the mist upon the hill 120 

Month after month, year after year 117 

My ancient ship upon my ancient sea 235 

My God, — oh, let me call Thee mine 345 

My life is cold, love's fire being dead 17 

'Neath the palms in Elah's valley 11 

( No coward soul is mine 279 

Not many years, but long enough to see 131 

, O between distress and pleasure 126 

\ O Day! he cannot die 190 

O dream, where art thou now? 9° 

O God! if this indeed be all 324 

O Innocence, that cannot live 147 

O let me be alone awhile! H^ 

387 



Index to First Lines of Poems 



PAGE 

O mother, I am not regretting 87 

O transient voyager of heaven ! 84 

O wander not so far away ! 90 « , 

Of College I am tired, I wish to be at home 4^' 

Often rebuked, yet always back returning 277 

Oh, all the cares these noontide airs 210 

Oh, I am very weary 334 

Oh, they have robbed me of the hope 300 

Oh, thy bright eyes must answer now 256 

Oh, would I were the golden light 48 

On a sunny brae alone I lay 160 

One night, when silence reigned around 3 

One pause upon the brink of life 242 

Oppressed with sin and woe 348 

Passing amid the deepest shade 6 

Poor restless dove, I pity thee 337 

Redbreast, early in the morning 67 

Riches I hold in light esteem 264 

Sacred watcher, wave thy bells! no 

Severed and gone, so many years 298 

Shall earth no more inspire thee 1 74 

She dried her tears and the}'- did smile 232 

She will not sleep, for fear of dreams 29 

Shed no tears o'er that tomb 243 

Silent he sat. That stormy breast 108 

Silent is the house: all are laid asleep 199 . 

Sister, you've sat there all the day 37 

Sleep brings no joy to me 81 

Sleep, mourner, sleep! — "I cannot sleep" 215 

Sleep not, dream not; this bright day 72 

So where He reigns in glory bright 363 

Speak of the North ! A lonely moor 60 

Spirit of Earth! thy hand is chill 352 

Start not! upon the minster wall 223 

Strong I stand, though I have borne 83 

Sweet are thy strains. Celestial Bard 328 

Tell me, tell me, smiling child 169 

That dreary lake, that moonlight sky 231 

That summer sun, whose genial glow 286 

388 



Index to First Lines of Poems 

PAGE 

That wind, I used to hear it swelling 128 

The bluebell is the sweetest flower 267 

The busy day has hurried by 115 

The day is done, the winter sun 156 

The desert moor is dark, there is tempest in the air . 95 

The evening sun was sinking down 65 

The heart whieh cannot know another 213 

The house was still, the room was still 57 

The human heart has hidden treasures 46 

The light of thy ancestral hall 376 

The iinnet in the rocky dells 188 

The mist is resting on the hill 303 

The moon is full this winter night 1 94 

The night is darkening round me 80 

The old church tower and garden wall 79 

The organ swells, the trumpets sound 77 

The room is quiet, thoughts alone 41 

The starry night shall tidings bring 123 

The sun has set, and the long grass now 74 

The westering sunbeams smiled on Percy Hall 373 

The winter wind is loud and wild 192 

There let thy bleeding branch atone 356 

There should be no despair for you 255 

There swept adown that dreary glen 99 

There was a time when my cheek burned 125 

There's no use in weeping 53 

There's something in this glorious hour 211 

This shall be thy lullaby 92 

This summer wind with thee and me 158 

Though bleak these woods, and damp the ground. . . 332 

Though not a breath can enter here 287 

Thrice the great fadeless lights of heaven 8 

Through the hours of yesternight 224 

Thy sun is near meridian height 132 

'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight 136 

'Tis not the air I wished to play 44 

'Tis strange to think there was a time 330 

'Twas just the time of eve 71 

'Twas night, her comrades gathered all 145 

'Twas just the time of eve 68 

'Twas yesterday at early dawn I54 

Upon her soothing breast 130 

389 



Index to First Lines of Poems 



PAGE 

We know where deepest lies the snow ', 292 

We take from Hfc one little share 55 

Weaned from life and flown away 89 

Well hast thou spok'n, and yet not taught 262 

Well, some may hate, and some may scorn 260 

We'll narrower draw the circle round 93 

What is she writing? Watch her now 33 

What though the sun had left my sky 342 

What winter floods, what streams of spring 146 

When all our cheerful hours seem gone for ever 367 

When days of beauty deck the vale 228 

When thou sleepest, lulled in night 50 

Wlien weary with the long day's care 252 

Where can the weary lay his head 150 

Where were ye all? and where wert thou? 94 

While on my lonely couch I lie 290 

Why ask to know what date, what clime? 208 

Why hold young eyes the fullest fount of tears?. . , . 364 

Why should such gloomy silence reign 350 

Yes, holy be thy resting-place 176 

Yes, I will take a cheerful tone 357 

Yes, thou art gone! and never more . 318 

Yet o'er his face a solemn light 24 



740 



390 



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